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Book ■‘ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT, 






































I 


























THE EIGHTH WONDER 

AND OTHER STORIES 


By A. S. M. HUTCHINSON 

—o— 

The Happy Warrior 
Once Aboard the Lugger— 
The Clean Heart 
Ip Winter Comes 
This Freedom 

The Eighth Wonder 
and Other Stories 




THE 

EIGHTH WONDER 

And Other Stories 

pv'yo 

BY 

A: S. M. HUTCHINSON 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1923 





Ec 

* .Jit 


Copyright, 1920, 1921, 1922, 1923, 
By A. S. M. Hutchinson. 

All rights reserved 

Published September, 1923 


Printed in the United States of America 


OCT -2 *23 

©C1A760125 

^ 0 , A 



CONTENTS 


The Eighth Wonder. 

Some Talk of Alexander- 

The Rough Little Girl and the Smooth Little 
Girl. 

The Swordsman. 

The Grim Test . . 

A Magdalen of the Soil. 

There Still Are Fairies. 

In Evening Bells ........ 


PAGE 

I 

31 

79 

119 

153 

191 

221 

255 










NOTE 


All these stories have been revised since 
they appeared in periodicals. “There Still 
are Fairies” has been slightly altered from 
the form in which, entitled “The Strike¬ 
breaker,” it appeared in Harper’s Magazine . 
“In Evening Bells” has been rewritten since 
it appeared in McCall’s Magazine. 













A 











THE EIGHTH WONDER 



THE EIGHTH WONDER 

AND OTHER STORIES 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 

You probably could not say straight off what were 
the Seven Wonders of the World. Personally I am 
always sure of the Pyramids of Egypt and sometimes 
have been able to add the Hanging Gardens of Baby¬ 
lon. I often with a flush of pride recall supplying, 
on one of my bright days, the Colossus of Rhodes; and 
I remember how profoundly stirred were the circles 
in which I move when, at a learned talk, a young 
woman of our company added the Temple of Diana 
at Ephesus. But further than that — ! 

Still, what’s the odds? No one is any the better 
for knowing what were the Seven Wonders; nor for 
that matter is any one, knowing them, necessarily 
more widely read. Take the case of Edward Bryant. 
Edward, when he mounted the upper deck of the 
tramcar that was to take him to a meeting of the 
Excelsior Literary Society at which was to be read a 
paper on the Seven Wonders of the World, hadn’t an 
idea of them, not even the Pyramids. He opened the 
packet of cigarettes he had just bought and took out 


4 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


with a cigarette the picture card given with the packet; 
and there, lo! was on the one side a drawing of the 
Pyramids and on the other the caption “ The Seven 
Wonders of the World ” and their names. 

“Coh! That’s a coincidence for you!” exclaimed 
Edward to himself; and on a sudden thought pondered 
the Seven till he had got them by heart. 

Arrived at the lecture hall and seated among his 
fellow members of the Excelsior, Edward proceeded 
at once to apply the sudden thought which had caused 
him to commit to memory the Seven. The vacant 
seat he found (an end seat) placed him next to a 
worthy couple, by name Mr. and Mrs. Hunt. Mr. 
Hunt, who had a short white beard and that air (which 
I always envy) of owning a place in the world and 
insisting on its recognition, was a retired merchant 
of small but sufficient income; Mrs. Hunt, who wore 
spectacles and a black satin dress, was of comfortable 
and motherly appearance. Edward knew the Hunts 
only by sight but it was the etiquette of the Excelsior 
Literary Society for neighbours at its gatherings to 
exchange a bow, a smile and a word or two, and these 
courtesies Edward with the Hunts therefore ex¬ 
changed; then applied the results of that sudden 
thought of his: 

“ Ought to be interesting,” said Edward, indicating 
his admission card on which was printed the subject 
of the evening’s paper. 

“ Indeed it should,” agreed Mr. Hunt, and held up 
his own card and read from it. “ ‘ The Seven Won¬ 
ders of the World ’; yes, indeed.” 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


5 

“Know what they were, I suppose?” said Edward 
carelessly. 

Mrs. Hunt, who attended the Excelsior more for 
its social than for its instructive side, beamed. She 
liked this friendliness of this personable young man. 

“ No, we don’t,” said Mrs. Hunt, frankly and 
invitingly. 

“ Tell you if you like,” said Edward, nonchalantly 
easing his collar. 

Mr. Hunt gave him a keen look. “ Eh, you know 
them ? ” inquired Mr. Hunt. 

“ Oh, rather,” said Edward, “ rather. Let me see.” 
He spread out the fingers of one hand and ticked them 
off with the other. “ The Pyramids of Egypt, the 
Hanging Gardens of Babylon — ” With the ease of 
one repeating household words he ran off six; with 
admirably studied effect paused before the seventh: 
“ And, and, let me see; dear me, how stupid of me; 
ah, yes, of course; and seventh the Pharos of 
Alexandria.” 

“ Well! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hunt; and it was perfectly 
clear from the tone of her {f Well!” and from the 
admiring gaze at Edward with which she accompanied 
it that she was far less impressed by the wonderful 
Seven than by the fact of this likeable young man thus 
familiarly knowing them. Mr. Hunt also gazed upon 
Edward with an obvious respect; and divers other 
members of the Excelsior near about who had inclined 
their ears towards Edward’s voice and for the benefit 
of whose ears Edward had very kindly raised his voice, 
smiled and nodded thanks and were heard to whisper, 


6 THE EIGHTH WONDER 

“ Very clever young man that young Edward Bryant, 
you know.” 

It was a thoroughly impressive little triumph for 
Edward and Edward was immensely pleased with 
himself. “ By Jove, I’ll stick to those cigarettes in 
future,” said Edward to himself gratefully; and 
happy chance, once more, came to his aid to rescue 
him from an appalling catastrophe, to the brink of 
which, in the midst of his satisfaction, Mrs. Hunt’s 
next words suddenly projected him. 

“ And what,” said Mrs. Hunt, loud and clear, “ and 
what was that last one, that Pharos of Alexandria? ” 

Poor Edward! He hadn’t a notion, not the faintest 
glimmer of an idea. 

Round came all the near-by heads, forward bent 
the purposeful head of Mr. Hunt. 

Poor Edward! But then the happy chance; the 
lights went down; the chairman got up. 

“ Why,” said Edward, “ the Pharos, of course — 
Hush. Just beginning. You’ll hear in a minute.” 

That is the prelude to the story. 

“ The Seven Wonders of the World,” began the 
lecturer, “ as of course the members of a society such 
as this need no telling, were — ” 

Edward, after the first few sentences, heard never 
a word. He was day-dreaming. He was castle build¬ 
ing. He was thinking how magnificent was that 
moment when all the near-by heads, and especially the 
well-to-do, solid heads of Mr. and Mrs. Hunt, were 
first listening to him and then with respect gazing 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 7 

upon him; and he was seeing himself climbing up in 
the world, always thus listened to, always thus re¬ 
spectfully gazed upon, rapidly gaining place, power 
and wealth; and he was observing particularly in the 
admiring throng a beautiful girl whose hero he was 
and to whose feet his triumphs would be brought; and 
he was going over the road practically and deliciously, 
step by step, noting his swift advancement in the 
shipping office where, at present, his salary was four 
pounds a week; and he was watching himself working 
desperately hard to achieve this swift advancement; 
and he was hearing himself say to the lovely creature 
who adored him, “ Fancy, darling, when we met I 
was getting four pounds a week and now it’s forty, 
two thousand a year! ” And he was wafted from 
all this on to concentration on the lovely creature, 
creating her (for she did not exist) and imagining 
her; and he was thinking all this when suddenly he 
found to his amazement, so vividly and at such length 
had he been thinking it, that the lecture was over, the 
lights up, and the chairman making an announcement. 

He came to himself and listened. 

The Committee of the Excelsior Literary Society, 
the chairman was saying, had much pleasure in adopt¬ 
ing the lecturer’s suggestion and offering a prize — 
“ of Five Guineas,” said the chairman impressively 
(applause) — for the best essay on the Eighth Wonder 
of the World. 

“ Let it be granted,” said the chairman, “ as our 
friend Euclid says (applause) that those — er — crea¬ 
tions of the ancients were the Seven Wonders of the 


8 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


World, we moderns, content, for the purpose under 
notice, with a single choice, surely can place beside 
them an eighth which, having regard to the enormous 
field of modern science and invention, incontestably 
will out-do them all. The lecturer has touched on 
several modern wonders from which members of the 
Excelsior can take their choice; he has left unsaid many 
that will instantly occur to you- ” 

Edward’s mind again was swinging away. He 
would go in for this competition; he would win it; he 
would stand up there and read his paper to echoes of 
applause. The Eighth Wonder? What could it be? 
What should he choose? Wireless? The turbine 
engine? The aeroplane? 

The lights, as has been said, were turned up. 
Edward’s position in the hall was at the extreme end 
of one of the two horns into which the chairs were 
drawn forward in semicircle about the lecturer’s table. 
Edward thus looked directly upon the faces of the 
members seated at the further horn of the semicircle 
and all of a sudden, lifting up his eyes in his cogita¬ 
tion— the Eighth Wonder? What? Which? The 
Eighth Wonder? —All of a sudden, hitting him with 
a shock, and holding him with a breathless catch, 
Edward saw The Eighth Wonder of the World seated 
over against him! 

The Eighth Wonder of the World wore a brown 
dress and held on her lap a brown hat trimmed with 
brown velvet. She had come in, evidently, while the 
lecture was in progress and the room in darkness, for 
she certainly had not been there when Edward last 



THE EIGHTH WONDER 


9 

could see in that direction and as certainly Edward 
never before had seen her. By Jove, he would not 
have forgotten her if he had, nor been caused, in his 
day-dreaming, to invent the lovely face that had been 
necessary to his dreams. Not his fondest dream ever 
had imagined anything so lovely as this Eighth Won¬ 
der that now he saw. 

She was soft and brown; that is how Edward (no 
artist in words) to himself described her. By brown 
he meant the general colouring of her face and her 
hair and her dress; and by soft he meant the gentle 
loveliness of her expression, the lovely yielding slim¬ 
ness that her young figure seemed to have, the gentle 
roundness of her bosom, the freshness of her slightly 
parted lips, the intelligence, the tenderness, the gleams 
of fun within those jewelled eyes of hers, set in their 
pools of white, fringed with their long, dark lashes — 
yes, by soft he meant the virginal and lovely slip she 
was, whose virgin loveliness called to each fibre of his 
masculinity to hold, shield, cherish, protect, encompass 
with his strength, dower with all his goods, fight for, 
fend for, keep from the smallest hurt, adore. 

This, I admit, was pretty good going for the young 
man Edward in the clap of a single eyeshot; but if you 
will reflect upon the awe unquestionably struck into 
their beholders by the Seven Wonders of the World 
you will be generous, I am sure, in your estimate of 
the effect upon Edward (a nice, simple-minded young 
fellow) of this astounding revelation to him of the 
Eighth. 

The Eighth Wonder of the World! Her hair was 


10 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


drawn back from her forehead and brought forward 
in a very mysterious way (Do they gum it or drive 
pins clean into their skulls, or what? I never know) 
over her ears; and this gave to her face an aspect at 
once benign and piquante, serene and roguish, chal¬ 
lenging and calm. Her feet were beautifully shod 
in shining patent-leather shoes and ran up through 
lovely ankles in biscuit-coloured stockings of silk. She 
was about nineteen. Her name was Clarry. (Clarry, 
or Clarissa, Hunt, by the way; daughter, as it most 
surprisingly turned out, of those two whom Edward 
had so greatly impressed). 

And now that is enough for just a moment about 
Clarry as Clarry; and I italicize that because the whole 
point of this story is to discover to you what I have 
long discovered for myself, namely that the Eighth 
Wonder of the World (but I would put it far higher 
and call it the First) is every girl of Clarry’s years 
and of the years immediately behind and in front of 
Clarry’s. You can put any girl you like into this story. 
They all are Clarrys (in some one’s eyes); they all 
are the Eighth Wonder (in mine and soon, I hope, in 
yours). 4 

The Eighth Wonder is to be seen in every city 
throughout the civilised globe, whose most stupendous 
of all wonders she is, and in every walk of life, high 
or low, except the very highbred, swagger ones (too 
frightening for me) but she is easiest (and loveliest) 
to recognise at about six o’clock of the evening in the 
cities when swarming out she comes from the business 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


ii 


houses where she has been tied up, into the streets 
where much I love to wander, and wandering, watch 
her bring her wonder to my eyes. 

Yes, that is when their wonder is most patent, the 
wonder of the Eighth Wonders of the World, when they 
come .shining out from their grim prisons; poured from 
their doorways to the sombre pavements like brightly 
coloured beads tipped from a box across a dull-hued 
tablecloth; dispersed among and starred among the 
trudging crowds like fireflies lighting in vivid glints 
a forest. They all are lovely, every one, even those 
that in the loosest test would pass no beauty standards; 
lovely in their youth, lovely in their eager mien, lovely 
in their metamorphosis from parts of huge machines 
(the world’s work) to individual hopes and fears and 
faiths and loves (the world’s high holiday). They all 
are wonderful. There is, as out they come and shining 
home they go, no man they pass — not all your savants 
or your laurelled — can of his powers give to weariness 
what of their graces these can give; can of his brain 
or of his hands bequeath mankind what of their bodies 
these, its mothers preordained, maintaining it, bequeath 
it. All lovely, all wonderful; and loveliest and won¬ 
drous most that one, as often I have seen, who to a 
lover waiting there emerges, and goes to him and 
amidst all the thronging crowds raises her face to him, 
and kisses him and takes his arm, and turns along the 
crowded streets with him; and lo, no longer crowded, 
fretful, anxious are that lover’s ways but Paradise. 

The Eighth Wonder! 


12 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


Edward, mind you, only by degrees spread over 
many months came to realise that Clarry was the 
Eighth Wonder of the World; but he knew from the 
very first that she was by far the most wonderful thing 
that had ever come into his life or into anybody’s life; 
and within a few weeks was knowing it ascendingly 
by enjoying in her company that Paradise of being 
greeted by her (she used to emerge to him when he 
was able to be there from the solicitor’s office in which 
she was employed) and of kissing her and taking her 
arm and walking with her, which I have shown to 
present the Eighth Wonders at their most wonderful 
and loveliest. 

It all happened with astounding swiftness and sim¬ 
plicity. At one moment Edward in the lecture hall 
was for the first time in his life staring upon the Eighth 
Wonder; at the next, to the stupefaction of Edward, 
the Eighth Wonder had crossed the room directly to 
him, greeted her parents and by her parents been in¬ 
troduced to him; at the next he was walking towards 
their home with the Hunts and with the Eighth Won¬ 
der; and at a moment advanced some weeks in point 
of time, but seeming to Edward, existing as it were 
in a trance, to be but a portion of the very same night, 
he was the accepted suitor of the Eighth Wonder and 
their marriage in immediate prospect. 

Only bits of all this can be selected for telling, and 
I would choose those bits on the one hand as they 
seemed to Edward peculiar to himself and never to 
have happened to anybody before, and on the other 
hand as they are common to all the Eighth Wonders 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


13 

and to all those thrice favoured men on whom not only- 
discovery but possession of an Eighth Wonder is be¬ 
stowed. 

There was that first night walking home with the 
Hunts and with Clarry. Four abreast could not be 
walked on the pavements they followed, and it was 
contrived by the parents that Edward walked part of 
the way with Mr. Hunt and part of the way with Mrs. 
Hunt, never with Clarry. The Hunts, you see, had not 
the glimmer of a notion that they were the temporary 
owners of the Eighth Wonder of the World, still less 
that this clever and fascinating young man was with 
them solely because they owned the Eighth Wonder 
and because he proposed to sunder from them the 
Eighth Wonder and have it for his own. They thought 
he was with them because it was their company he de¬ 
sired; and Edward at every step of the way to their 
house upheld them in this belief. While he walked 
with Mrs. Hunt he talked to her on all her subjects, 
from the complexities of the domestic servant prob¬ 
lem to the dangers of the damp night air, the ailments 
arising therefrom, and the divers other ailments to 
which Mrs. Hunt was most grievously subject, with 
an earnest sympathy which completely won her heart. 
While he walked with Mr. Hunt, he received the views 
of Mr. Hunt on the political and foreign situations, on 
the state of trade and on the sinister traces of Bol¬ 
shevism in the local Borough Council, with a defer¬ 
ence, an interest, and a profound thoughtfulness (voiced 
principally in a succession of “ I agree, sir; I agree 
absolutely and entirely, sir”) that was in the highest 


14 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


degree gratifying to Mr. Hunt and that caused Mr. 
Hunt, on arrival at the Hunt demesne, to bid him en¬ 
ter for a glass of wine and a piece of cake, and on his 
departure from the Hunt demesne to bid him call again, 
not only “ whenever you like ” which, as you know, by 
itself means never, but on a definite date, the morrow, 
Sunday, for midday dinner, which as you can guess 
meant a very great deal (to Edward). 

“ A thoroughly nice, well-informed, good-mannered, 
clever, agreeable young fellow,” said Mr. Hunt, re¬ 
turning to Mrs. Hunt at the departure of Edward. 

These adjectives were cordially endorsed and others 
added to them by Mrs. Hunt, and their effect, and 
something mysteriously additional to their effect, was 
formulated also in the mind of Clarry, left in the hall 
by her father to close the door upon the departing 
Edward. The earnest attention that Edward had paid 
to the owners of the Eighth Wonder had enabled him 
to exchange very few sentences with the Eighth Won¬ 
der herself. Those they now exchanged, though few 
and inconsequent, were protracted by the enormous 
difficulty which Edward felt in tearing himself away 
from the presence of the Eighth Wonder, and they had, 
few and inconsequent as they were, the curious effect 
of sending Edward away, when at last he removed him¬ 
self, in a mingling of rapture and of envy, hatred, 
malice, and all uncharitableness. The rapture resulted 
from the discovery to him of the Eighth Wonder of 
the World; the envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitable¬ 
ness arose out of the very last words by her to him 
addressed. 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


15 

“ I expect I know,” said the Eighth Wonder (her 
almost last words), “ who will get that prize that was 
offered at the meeting to-night.” 

“Who?” said Edward, trembling. 

He was trembling by reason of emotions aroused in 
him by the hope that the Eighth Wonder would reply 
“ You,” and by apprehension of all the delicious emo¬ 
tions that would flood within him if she did thus reply. 
But her reply, as it turned out, caused him to tremble 
with emotions very much of another kind. 

“ I feel sure,” replied the Eighth Wonder, “ that 
it will be that Mr. Gilray. He is clever, don’t you 
think? I’ve often thought what a striking face he 
has; quite the most intellectual looking of all the mem¬ 
bers. Oh, yes, I should think he’s almost certain to 
win it.” 

Edward, who for twelve minutes had been morally 
unable to remove himself from the house, suddenly was 
able physically to remove himself in much less than one ; 
and he walked home, as has been said, on the one part 
in rapture, on the other boiling with a furious and 
most terrible hatred of the intellectual looking Mr. 
Gilray. 

Then there was the time (and it was not so very 
long afterwards) that Edward was walking with the 
Eighth Wonder on a Saturday afternoon in a secluded 
tract of Hampstead Heath. The Eighth Wonder had 
taken off her gloves and was carrying them in her 
right hand. Her left hand, bare, brown, small, capable, 
exquisite, was hanging next to the right hand of Ed¬ 
ward and Edward suddenly and ever so lightly, be- 


i6 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


cause he was terribly afraid and because the stupendous 
thumping of his heart could be heard, as he believed, 
all over the heath, enclosed her hand in his. 

“ Do you mind?” said Edward, and hated himself 
for the voice in which he said it, because it came out, 
to his very great surprise and vexation, as a husky 
squeak. 

She did not appear to mind. She said no word. The 
only sign she gave was a faint tide of colour in her 
cheeks. 

The thumping of Edward’s heart now could be 
heard, as he believed, not only throughout the heath 
but throughout the boundaries of the entire parish of 
Hampstead. He interlaced the five fingers of his hand 
between the five fingers of the hand of the Eighth Won¬ 
der of the World and held it palm to palm. Then 
Edward raised the hand thus held and brought the 
forearm of the Eighth Wonder of the World within 
his own forearm, and with his forearm and his elbow 
pressed her forearm and her elbow to his side, and with 
his five fingers and his palm most tenderly and yet most 
firmly pressed the five fingers and the palm that were 
hers. Then Edward, terrified that the thumping of 
his heart could now be heard at Charing Cross, and 
that certainly it would burst within his breast and suffo¬ 
cate him unless something were done, stopped and did 
the only thing that could possibly avert so disastrous 
a calamity. He stopped and stooped and placed his 
lips upon the lips of the Eighth Wonder of the World; 
and immediately the duress of his heart was stayed and 
he knew that he owned the Eighth Wonder of the 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


1 7 

World and he felt, furthermore, that he owned the 
whole of the round world whose Eighth Wonder she 
was, its riches, its glories, and all that therein is. 

I am a little wrong in saying it was at this moment 
that Edward knew he owned the Eighth Wonder be¬ 
cause, as I have said, though he knew from the first 
moment he set eyes upon her that Clarry was more 
wonderful than anything he had seen or imagined, 
it was not until some time later that he realised her 
position in the wonders of the world, and this realisa¬ 
tion was yet to come. But I knew it, as I have told 
you, all along, and in reporting moments supreme as 
was that in which he placed his lips to hers, I get rather 
flurried and cannot help anticipating things a little. 

Then there was the time — firmly affianced now, the 
blessings of the parental Hunts thick about them and 
negotiations already in train for the rental of a tiny 
little house in Clapham Common — the time when they 
quarrelled. This terrible event took place when Ed¬ 
ward was entertaining Clarry to an afternoon in the 
tea gardens of a riverside hotel at Hampton Court, 
and it was because when Edward, for the purpose of 
this expedition met the Eighth Wonder of the World 
at Waterloo station he saw upon the head of the Eighth 
Wonder of the World a hat which filled him with terror 
and dismay. 

I am sorry I cannot describe this hat, but I have 
no aptitude whatever for fashion-plate stuff. Edward 
certainly could not describe it; he had no words in 
which to express what he thought about it. But I have 


i8 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


a profound sympathy with the feelings of all Edwards 
in matters like this, so I say simply that it was a hat 
which attracted attention, and I leave it at that. 

As lovely Clarry advanced across the platform to 
him, Edward, staggered, saw several people look at 
her hat, and when they got into the train and the train 
began to move, he saw the eyes of all the persons in the 
compartment to be fixed upon the hat. Not only that, 
and goodness knows that was terrible enough for Ed¬ 
ward, but the eyes of these persons seemed also to con¬ 
vey to Edward (with a sly jeer) that he, and not Clarry, 
was responsible for the hat. Edward broke out into a 
profuse perspiration which lasted the whole afternoon 
and which, as you can well imagine, caused him the 
greatest discomfort. 

Far worse became the affair when they arrived at 
the tea gardens. Clarry was by now well aware that 
something was wrong, but she had no idea what was 
wrong; and when Edward, first very agitatedly and 
then very imperiously and sharply, refused to sit at a 
table in the middle of the gardens and insisted upon 
one remote and obscure, Clarry also became vexed, and 
the quarrel, though not yet joined, was afoot. Edward 
throughout the meal spoke scarcely a word. Obscure 
though the table was, it appeared to the distorted im¬ 
agination of Edward to be by far the most conspicuous 
of all the tables and to be, moreover, the one and only 
centre of observation of the occupants of all the tables. 
So distorted and inflamed indeed had the imagination 
of Edward by now become that it appeared to him, not 
only that the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him were ac- 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 19 

cusing him of responsibility for the hat, but that in 
some mysterious way the hat was not in fact upon 
Carry’s head but upon his own head. 

In this plight a new terror descended upon Edward 
and a new darkness upon the relations between him¬ 
self and the Eighth Wonder of the World. The table, 
chosen for its obscurity but affording no obscurity, 
was now seen by Edward to be furthest of all the tables 
from the exit from the garden. Edward determined 
within himself that no power on earth would induce 
him to walk through that chattering and giggling crowd 
with that hat, as it were, upon his head. He determined 
that he would sit there, if need be, till closing time. 
Not at the point of a revolver would he move from 
there. 

“ I thought,” said Clarry presently, after an enor¬ 
mous interval in which she had twice suggested move¬ 
ment and twice suffered rebuff, “ I thought we were 
going in a boat on the river ? ” 

To this and to further interrogation on the point 
there were responded by Edward only some vague, in¬ 
distinct mumblings. Clarry received these as long as, 
and indeed longer than, even an Eighth Wonder of 
the World can be expected to receive them; and then 
said Clarry, incisively, “ I would very much like to 
know what it is that’s the matter with you this after¬ 
noon. Perhaps you’ll tell me?” 

“ Oh, well, if you want to know,” said Edward, 
stung, “I’m not going on the river with you in that 
hat, and that’s flat.” 

No rose in the whole of that garden was anything 


20 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


like as red as the redness now seen upon the face of the 
Eighth Wonder of the World. 

“Oh,” said the Eighth Wonder; and about a year 
afterwards, “ I thought there was something wrong,” 
said she. 

“ There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Edward. 

No ice cream in the whole of those ice creams being 
eaten in those gardens was anything like as icy as the 
iciness that now froze the voice of the Eighth Wonder 
of the World. 

“ Thank you,” said the Eighth Wonder of the 
World. 

She arose and moved with icy dignity, like a moving 
pillar of salt, through the crowded tables. Edward 
followed her. He had “ let her know ” (as he ex¬ 
pressed it to himself) and he was glad that he had let 
her know and he did not care now if two dozen of her 
hats were to be seen upon his head. 

He travelled back with her in the train and he con¬ 
ducted her to her gate and in the whole journey no 
word was spoken. At the gate, “ Good-bye,” said 
Edward. “ Good-bye,” said the Eighth Wonder of the 
World, and turned away. 

“ Oh, by the way,” said Edward offhandedly, “ I find 
I sha’n’t be able to come in to lunch to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, and I’ve just remembered,” said Clarry 
brightly, “ that I sha’n’t be able to go with you to that 
concert on Monday night. Hope you don’t mind.” 

“ Not a bit,” said Edward cheerfully. “ I expect I 
can get some one else to come.” 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 21 

“ I’m sure you can,” said Clarry. “ I’ll send you the 
tickets.” 

“ Yes, do,” said Edward. 

Clarry did; and the very extraordinary thing (to 
me) is that Edward, though he was expecting the 
tickets, believed they would not come; and when they 
did come tore them into ten thousand pieces and 
dashed them upon the floor; and that Clarry, though 
she was not expecting Edward to lunch on Sunday, 
believed that he would come and watched for him from 
her bedroom window all the morning and then reported 
herself stricken with a most terrible headache (through 
eyestrain, I suppose) and wanting no food and threw 
herself on her bed and used two clean handkerchiefs 
and one soiled one; yes, so it must have been eyestrain. 

There followed for Edward two days and two nights 
(the nights of length never known before except in the 
Polar regions) during which stubbornness and con¬ 
trition waged terrible war within him, devouring him 
utterly so that he became haggard and consumed. On 
the third day, the battle being determined, and the field 
wherein it had been waged ravaged and laid waste, the 
field was in the evening removed by the faltering legs 
of Edward to the pavement outside Carry’s office and 
posted there, quaking; and at six o’clock precisely 
appeared the Eighth Wonder of the World and saw 
the wasted field and rushed straight into it and with 
tears so watered it and with happy cries so fostered it 
that it sprang into blossom with a shout and gave 
forth groans, laughter, penitence, promise and love an 
hundredfold. 


22 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


The round world and all that therein is had, at that 
moment, no lovelier sight. 

“ Ell never wear that wretched hat again,” cried the 
Eighth Wonder of the World, clinging. 

“ I swear I’ll never go out with you if you don’t 
wear it every day for a year,” cried Edward, clinging. 

“ Now then, please,” said a policeman; “ can’t stand 
here all night, you know.” (For, mind you, this was 
bang in the middle of the pavement in Basinghall 
Street, City, at the evening rush hour.) 

Then there was the time when they were married and 
set up in the tiny little house in Clapham Common, the 
interior of which, immediately you opened the front 
door, came at you like a blow in the face with an over¬ 
powering smell of new linoleum and new furniture, 
but with a blow, nevertheless, that was to Edward 
infinitely more fragrant than ever the waft of violets 
across a woodland, and to the Eighth Wonder of the 
World lovelier far than any savour in the general 
opinion of all Eighth Wonders considered loveliest. 

Edward, during his hours at his office, used, a dozen 
times a day, to sniff up the memory of this linoleum- 
furniture mixture within his nostrils; and Clarry, who, 
in order, as it were, to keep the smell going, had given 
up her office, could not bear to be out of its range for 
more than the shortest possible time, and used to hurry 
home from her shopping or from her visits to her 
mother, and open the front door and inhale it as a 
sailor, long absent from the wave, inhales the sea. 

This was the time when Edward, not yet quite 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 23 

arrived at realisation that Clarry was the Eighth Won¬ 
der of the World, advanced towards that realisation 
in daily progression. Supremely wonderful as he had 
always known Clarry to be, it was within the aroma of 
the new linoleum and the new furniture that her won¬ 
der was most fully disclosed to him. Edward was now 
earning six pounds a week, and he found, to his enor¬ 
mous astonishment, that the wonders of the Eighth 
Wonder of the World caused six pounds a week to go 
further, and to leave a larger balance when all was 
covered, for the necessities of two persons than ever 
he had contrived to make it go or leave for the necessi¬ 
ties of one. And then, too, was the extraordinary 
business about his dreams — those dreams of which I 
have given evidence at the Excelsior Literary Society 
in which he saw himself bounding along to place, 
power and wealth. 

These dreams, before he became the owner of the 
Eighth Wonder of the World, were in the nature, as 
it were, of a flying magic carpet which skimmed beau¬ 
tifully overhead and was delicious to watch, but was 
immeasurably out of reach and of no practical quality 
whatever. The Eighth Wonder of the World, placing 
one hand within the hand of Edward and stretching up 
the other, captured and brought down the skimming 
carpet and transformed it into a treadmill on which 
Edward laboured heavily and by no means always with 
pleasure, but yet unquestionably with marked advance¬ 
ment on the road to success. 

In instance, there was the matter of Spanish. 
Edward, lying on his back one evening on the new and 


24 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


powerfully smelling couch in the new and powerfully 
smelling sitting room, and watching the lovely skim¬ 
ming of his magic carpet overhead, told Clarry that his 
firm did a very large South American business, and 
that one day he was going to start learning Spanish 
with a view to advancing himself by getting into the 
foreign side of the house. This “ one day ” on which 
Spanish was to be begun had been in the mind of 
Edward for five and a half years. By the wonder of 
the Eighth Wonder of the World it now was astound- 
ingly caused to be the very next day after that on 
which this announcement was made to her. Edward, 
returning to the heavenly smell on the morrow, found 
the Eighth Wonder of the World awaiting him with 
the textbooks of a course in Spanish conducted by a 
school of foreign languages. A lesson a day was tab¬ 
ulated by this course. Fired by the wonder of the 
Eighth Wonder of the World, Edward took the first 
seven lessons at one enormous gulp on that very same 
night; on the twelfth day following he did half a les¬ 
son; on the fifteenth day the fag-end of a lesson of 
two days before; and on the twentieth day had been 
five days without doing any lesson and had no intention 
of ever doing any lesson again. 

It was at this point that the Eighth Wonder of the 
World very seriously exerted her wonders and put 
them upon Edward. The words in which they were 
received by Edward abashed Edward and fired Edward; 
abashed and fired him anew whenever (which was fre¬ 
quently) he wished that Spain and the whole South 
American continent might be sunk in their respective 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


25 


oceans and never again emerge; and ultimately landed 
him at the stage in which he addressed to the head of 
his firm a letter in perfect Spanish, pointing out his 
masterly knowledge of the Spanish tongue and sug¬ 
gesting that this knowledge should be placed at the 
disposal of the firm, whose interests he had so earnestly 
at heart, and begged to remain, Sir, your obedient 
servant, Edward Bryant. 

And it was so. 

“ You know,” said Edward, bursting with joy at 
the very considerable advancement which shortly fol¬ 
lowed this letter, “ you know, I absolutely never should 
have got this except for you.” 

He was right. 

Thus and in many similar ways were manifested to 
Edward the wonders of the Eighth Wonder of the 
World; and then there came the time (and this is the 
last of them) when broke upon him in actual fact the 
knowledge that the Eighth Wonder of the World she 
was. 

This was the time when mysterious and alarming 
things began to happen in the tiny house at Clapham 
Common, and when (one night at the climax of them) 
the smell of the new linoleum and the new furniture, 
distinctly diminished by now but kept alive by furni¬ 
ture polish, was banished and overpowered by smells 
which Edward had hitherto connected with dental 
parlours and medical consulting rooms. 

This was the time when the Eighth Wonder of the 
World spent a considerable portion of her days in 


26 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


resting on the sofa; when Mrs. Hunt came to take up 
residence with her daughter; when strange packages 
came into the house and an enormous amount of 
needle work was constantly in progress; and when 
finally, on the morning of the climax of these proceed¬ 
ings, there entered the place a dragon, grey, stern and 
grim, disguised as a maternity nurse, and carrying a 
brown bag of, to Edward, very sinister aspect. This 
dragon, divesting herself of her outer garments, ap¬ 
peared before Edward in the sitting room so stiffly 
starched that she crackled in every inch of her person 
and at every step of her tread, causing him to quail, 
and told him he had better go out for the evening; 
which Edward, though quailing, refusing to do, the 
dragon commanded him to remain in the sitting room 
and departed, crackling. 

Next the house was entered by a doctor, carrying a 
black bag even more sinister than the brown bag of 
the crackling dragon, and there followed now for 
Edward, incarcerated in the sitting room and hearing 
always mysterious sounds and sometimes very lament¬ 
able and heartbreaking sounds, an evening more terrible 
than any he had ever imagined. 

He knew that Clarry was in most dreadful extrem¬ 
ity; and for the reason that his imagination never 
yet had approached this extremity that was hers, he 
explored it now with the terrors of one awakening to 
find himself entombed. He was assured that Clarry 
must die. He never had thought upon the mysteries 
of nature, much less upon those agonies in which, 
touching humanity, her mysteries are encompassed, 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


27 

and his reason, that never had reasoned with them, 
cried out against them in hatred and in dread. What 
was Divinity that such things could be? Sometimes 
he prayed and sometimes — did not pray; sometimes, 
bowed upon the table, in impotence he beat his head 
upon his hands; sometimes, pacing the floor, in dread 
he held his breath and paused to listen. 

The door opened and his heart stopped. The crack¬ 
ling dragon crackled in. He had been smoking pipe 
after pipe, and all said to him or done for him by the 
crackling dragon was “Priff! Praff! You have a 
terrible atmosphere in here!”; and the window flung 
up with such violence that it appeared likely to crash 
through the ceiling; and something snatched up from the 
sideboard; and the crackling dragon crackled out again. 

It was winter. It became icily cold, but he did not 
dare shut the window because, even in his dire distress, 
he still was frightened of the crackling dragon and was 
afraid lest she should return. He was thinking now 
over his vile behaviour in the matter of that lamentable 
business of the hat; and he was wondering if Clarry, 
dying, was remembering his abominable conduct then 
displayed towards her; and he was in the last depths 
of misery and grief; and then to his extreme terror he 
heard the doctor departing. Going without speaking 
to him! Was it that he did not wish to break the 
news? He blundered to the door and in his agitation 
scarcely could open it; and then opened it and caught 
the doctor. 

“ Hullo! ” said the doctor. “ Didn’t know you were 
in. Thought they’d turned you out. Well, it’s all gone 


28 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


splendidly. She’s fine. You’re a happy father and all 
that. Congratulate you. Son and heir. Splendid, 
what! Good night, good night! ” 

He returned to the sitting room. Inexpressible 
tumult disorganised him. He first was on his knees in 
gratitude. He next was on his feet in ecstasy. Clarry! 
A son! He was there hours as it appeared to him, tom 
by these new stresses, plunged from them back to his 
earlier anguish, then to his new tumults again, before, 
at last, a message came to him to release him. 

The crackling dragon crackled in. 

“Frripp! Frrapp!” said the crackling dragon. 
“ You’re terribly cold in here! ” slammed down the 
window with such violence that it appeared likely to 
crash through the floor; and told him, grudgingly, that 
he might now go upstairs for one minute — “ And no 
talk, please.” 

Then he went into the room, and even the crackling 
dragon, noticing his face as he came in and perhaps 
taking compassion on him, went and crackled herself 
out in the passage, and Mrs. Hunt went with her; and 
he was alone with the stupendous and exquisite mystery 
that-was here. And when he saw Clarry lying on the 
bed, and when he saw lying upon her lovely arm and 
held against her darling breast the man-child that in 
mystery and in agony she had delivered out of her 
body to him, he knew then that she was the Eighth 
Wonder of the World; and the wonder and the glory 
of her, and the miracle and mystery of her engulfed 
him and overcame him; and he fell on his knees by the 
bed, and bowed down his head and cried very much, 


THE EIGHTH WONDER 


29 

with real tears, dripping; and once he cried (I don’t 
know why) “ Oh, my God! ” ; and once he said, very 
brokenly, “You are wonderful, wonderful!”; and 
soon after that they crackled in to him from the passage 
and got him out and pushed him down the stairs, and 
he went down wiping his eyes because his eyes were 
streaming. 

That is all. But the point is that he now knew 
clearly and definitely what until now he had never 
definitely known, though frequently surmised. And 
on the very next morning, as he was proceeding to his 
office, his head enormously high and his chest enor¬ 
mously extended, and as he was perceiving his son, in 
successive pictures, as Commander in Chief of the 
British Army, First Sea Lord, Poet Laureate, Presi¬ 
dent of the Royal Academy, Lord Chancellor and 
Archbishop of Canterbury, and was debating within 
himself which of the insignia of these was least un¬ 
worthy to be borne upon the breast of his son (then 
weighing seven pounds and fourteen ounces) —as he 
was doing all this, there came up to him one who 
accosted him and said “Hullo, Bryant, haven’t seen 
you for years. Do you remember me? I’m Gilray. 
By Jove, do you know, I believe the last time I saw 
you was two years ago at the Excelsior Literary 
Society, when they put up a competition for the best 
essay on the Eighth Wonder of the World. I got the 
first prize, you know.” 

“ By Jove,” said Edward, “ you’re welcome to it, 
old man. I got the Eighth Wonder.” 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 






















SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 
I 


His parents called him Hector. When he and Tom 
and Harry, his brothers, were tiny things, his pretty 
young mother used to stand them about the piano and 
sing old-fashioned songs to them. Presently she would 
beam at her first-born and cry, “ Now Hector’s song! ” 
and then the piano would change from the plaintive 
melodies and thump and jingle out the defiant, blaring 
strains, and they would all shout: 

“ Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as 
these ...” 

What fun! How they would all jump about and 
shout it while his mother laughed and nodded from the 
piano! What jolly, jolly fun! 

But from the age of twelve, when first he went to 
boarding-school and first heard fully of the redoubt¬ 
able Trojan whose name he bore, acutely aware by then 
how ill, how grotesquely, it suited him — from then 
onwards, all his life, how he hated the name! How 
he loathed and detested the defiant, blaring tune! 

Nobody knew how much he hated the name. He 
hated it so much that, after that first term at school, 
when the mortification of the thing was new and bitter 


34 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


upon him, he never could respond lovingly to the name 
on his parents’ lips. That damped whatever demon¬ 
strativeness of affection he ever showed towards his 
parents, and equally damped whatever depth of affec¬ 
tion he ever felt; and neither, as he came out of baby¬ 
hood, was remarkable. Demonstrativeness and depth, 
applied to any affair, were two of the many gifts for¬ 
gotten by the fairies at his christening. 

When he was sixteen he was entered with others 
of his form for the London Matriculation examina¬ 
tion. He dreaded the examination, as he always 
dreaded any ordeal, whether of mind or muscle, but he 
dreaded much more the public exposure of the hated 
name entailed by his master checking over the list of 
candidates before the entries were sent in. 

“ Tell me if I’ve got any of your Christian names 
wrong,” said the master; and misery descended upon 
him whose Christian name was Hector. 

“ Abney,” read the master. “ Abney, John. Allen, 
Henry James. Bartlett, Phillip. Brown, Arthur 
George. Bywash, Hector.” 

A titter ran round the class. All the lusty young 
barbarians — possible Hectors any of them, but bear¬ 
ing such common names as James and Frank and 
Charles — all looked and grinned at the crimsoned, 
gawky youth who bore the name of the most valiant 
of all the valorous Trojans, and who in every line of 
his face and figure mocked that name to scorn. 

One boy among the grinning desks puffed out his 
chest and drubbed it, and pointed derisively at the 
hollow chest of Bywash, Hector; another pantomimed 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 35 

in the air, and suggested with wordless lips the hateful 
tune — 

“ Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as 
these!” 

How he hated it! How he hated his name! Why, 
why didn’t the master go on ? 

The master, an indulgent person — and the formality 
upon which he was engaged an indulgent interval in 
the morning’s discipline — looked up at the disturb¬ 
ance. He apprehended its cause, and himself contrib¬ 
uted a comprehending and sympathetic smile to the 
mocking grins, whereat the joke was taken up with 
loud and noisy delight; and the hatred of his species 
and of his name, and the smouldering sense of wrong 
done him by his parents in giving him so hateful a 
name, flared deeply on Hector’s cheeks. 

Everybody enjoyed the joke, and the master joined 
in it, because it was a joke that such a fatuous person 
as Bywash should have such a dashing name as Hector. 
For Bywash was a notorious ass; butt of his form; 
played no games, had no hobbies, did nothing, knew 
nothing, chummed with no one, slovenly, shiftless, 
characterless, gawky, unhealthy — and was called 
Hector! 

Ha, ha! What a name! What an ass! “ Look out, 
Bywash! ” 

Bywash always flinched and ducked when any one 
shouted, “ Look out, Bywash! ” as if he feared some¬ 
thing was being chucked at him. 


36 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

Things very often were chucked at him. 

The holidays at this period of his life were not much! 
relief from the unhappiness of school. He passed his 
time in doing what his father called “ lounging about 
the house.” He was not even fond of reading. He 
wasn’t fond of anything. His two brothers were to 
him precisely of a part with his noisy schoolmates. 
He was the eldest of the three, but they were at much 
the better school. They were at Tidborough; he was 
only at Chovensbury Grammar School. They had won 
Tidborough scholarships, enabling their education at 
that famous, and famously expensive, public school to 
be afforded; he had not won a scholarship, nor ever a 
prize in his life, and his lot was the grammar school at 
Chovensbury. Tidborough ranked with Charterhouse, 
Winchester, and Rugby, and in the holidays Hector’s 
brothers in little ways condescended to Hector with the 
superiority that any Tidborough boy gave himself over 
any boy not of the English public schools that can be 
numbered on the fingers of one hand, let alone of the 
grammar school at Chovensbury! 

Hector accepted this position in regard to his broth¬ 
ers. He always accepted any position. Nothing ever 
seemed to rouse him, or even to interest him. In the 
holidays Tom and Harry vigorously kept up their 
school sports, went to parties, and generally robust- 
iously enjoyed themselves within their wide circle of 
neighbouring friends. Hector mooned about the house. 

Then school days ended. Tom went into the Army; 
Harry floated on scholarships to Oxford, thence to 
enter the Civil Service. Fine boys; their father was 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


37 

proud of them. Hector, far from a fine boy, and evinc¬ 
ing not even enough of affection, let alone of talent, to 
make his father proud of him, was got into an office 
at Tidborough as a clerk, — Hammond’s, the big 
brewers. 

His father spoke seriously, though kindly, to him 
when, at seventeen and a half, he was removed from 
Chovensbury Grammar School and the clerkship at 
Hammond’s found for him. 

“ You must begin to assert yourself now, Hector, 
my boy,” his father told him. “ You’ve not done well 
at school, you know; that’s why you’re going in for 
this kind of thing, instead of the careers your brothers 
are launching out on. You could have had any career 
you liked, you know, Hector — medicine, the law, the 
Church, the Army — if you had joined hard work and 
scholarships, as have your brothers, to the very little 
I am able to provide in the way of money. But you 
haven’t. Well, well, that’s all over now, my boy. You 
mustn’t look on this that we’ve found for you as a 
come-down, you know. There are as great opportuni¬ 
ties for getting on in business as ever there are in the 
professions Tom and Harry have chosen; nowadays, 
indeed, much greater possibilities. Captains of indus¬ 
try — merchant princes — you know the kind of thing; 
that’s the goal you must set before yourself, my boy; 
and if you steadily set it before yourself and apply your 
every effort to achieving it, why in a very few years 
we shall have you the envy of your brothers and the 
pride of your old father and your dear mother. Eh? 
Come, that’s the programme, isn’t it, my boy? A 


38 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

fresh start, good prospects, and a fine future. Eh, 
Hector? ” 

Hector, listening in his lackadaisical, inattentive sort 
of way, had responded not a word. 

His father asked rather testily, “ You like the idea 
of going into Hammond’s, don’t you? You see the 
prospects, don’t you? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind if I do, father,” was Hector’s 
response. 

His father rather disgustedly closed the interview. 
“ Don’t mind if I do! ” What a spirit to take it in! 

II 

Now was the start-in-life period, the period of high 
youth, and Tom and Harry made much of it. They 
were a gay, full-blooded and taking pair, much in 
demand, when at home for their vacations, in all the 
society round about, and much given to jolly dalliance 
with the daughters of the countryside. They had 
between them quite a number of youthful love affairs, 
blazoned and flickered and gone affairs such as every 
right young man touches in his student days, and the 
cause of much genial banter by their proud and happy 
father. Entirely different the case with Hector. At 
school neglectful of school sports and interests; now 
at Hammond’s, a young man, nothing was for him in 
youth’s affinities and recreations. He had lodgings in 
Tidborough. A fortnight in the year was his vaca¬ 
tion; he spent it at home (still mooning about the 
house), and it happened that his fortnight never coin¬ 
cided with the generous vacations of his brothers. 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER- 


39 


“ Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, 

Steal from his person with no pace perceived.” 

As the hands of a clock, ever moving away yet never 
perceptible in their motion, so — imperceptibly, but 
very surely — Hector began to move out of relations 
with his home and with the friends of his home, and 
new friends he made none. When he was thirty his 
mother and father died, in the same year. He was 
distressed, but his distress did not go very deep or 
last very long. He was not constituted to feel deeply 
or lastingly. He was very sorry, and there, in a month, 
was an end of it, and with it the end of much more. 
That hateful “ Hector ” was now erased; none now to 
call him it and with it mock him. His brothers were 
in India, his parents dead, his old home sold. He be¬ 
came “ Bywash ”; by signature, “ H. Bywash.” “ Hec¬ 
tor ” was done, for ever. 

He left Hammond’s. A very few months in that 
office had sufficed to show this was no budding captain 
of industry or merchant prince had entered it. Other 
junior clerks advanced their positions in the firm; 
Bywash remained where he began. There came, 
shortly after the death of his parents, a gale of reor¬ 
ganization through Hammond’s. Bywash went out 
before its blast. 

He drifted away, much as, twelve years before, he 
had drifted in; in three years following, bringing him 
to three and thirty, was in and out of half-a-dozen 
posts; at thirty-five, at the same level of drab and 
listless incompetency, he had drifted into the appear¬ 
ance of a permanency at a desk in the office of a firm 


40 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


of estate agents. Here he earned two pounds a week, 
and here, which exactly suited him, he merely sat in the 
office from nine-thirty to six and entered up properties 
or copied them for clients. It was not an employment 
at which it was easy to make mistakes, or in which 
mistakes, if they were made, could be very serious. It 
was just the donkey-work of the business, and it was 
useful to the firm to have for the donkey-work a steady, 
dull, middle-aged man, who did no more than he was 
required to do, and for doing it wanted no more than 
he got. 

Hector, therefore, suited, and was himself well 
suited. He had, in addition to his two pounds a week, 
some ninety pounds a year from investments under 
his father’s will. He had no tastes; his only 
expenditure was his lodging; he only bought clothes 
when he came through those he wore. He now was 
forty and forty was his fitting age. He had never 
been a boy, never a youth. In boyhood the qualities 
of boyhood, and in youth the qualities of youth, had 
been expected of him, and he had never been able to 
produce them. At forty, nothing was expected of him, 
and that suited him precisely. At forty, looking upon 
his purposeless mien, his vacant eyes, and his neglected 
mind, one might say that the Creator, with high and 
ardent hopes planning in his own image the young 
body and the young mind that first was here, had 
faltered in his interest and abandoned it and gone 
away. . . . 

At forty, H. Bywash had no vices and no virtues. 
He was negative. Nothing interested him, nothing 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


4i 

caused his pulses to quicken. The result of the Derby 
or of the Boat Race, the sonnets of Wordsworth, the 
spires of Tidborough Cathedral springing to the sky, 
the bustle and gleam of Tidborough’s commercial 
streets by night, when pleasure and business were 
abroad, or May or October arranging their glories upon 
the countryside — these things were nothing to H. 
Bywash. Nothing was anything to him. 

And suddenly, at forty, thus circumstanced and thus 
equipped, astounding and tremendous things began to 
happen to him. 


Ill 

They began with the beginning of his annual fort¬ 
night’s holiday taken in this forty-first year of his 
age, — poignant and mysterious and terrific and fright¬ 
ful things: emotions that presented at white heat all 
those ardent emotions he should have known in his 
youth and never had known; emergencies that called 
for all those qualities of mind and muscle, of action 
and of courage, which in his young manhood he should 
have developed and husbanded, but whose virtues he 
had never entertained. 

He took this holiday, as he had taken twenty before 
it, at the great seaport town of Stormouth, an hour’s 
run from Tidborough on the main line from London. 
No one, observing him waiting on the platform for the 
down train, would have supposed he was holiday 
bound. He went on holiday as he went about every¬ 
thing else, listlessly; he spent it lodged in a cheap 


42 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

room, lounging within doors if the weather were dull, 
listlessly about the Prince’s Park or on the sea-front 
if fine. 

The train roared in. Everybody quickened up and 
bustled. Some greeted, some took leavesome rushed 
about for accommodation; some after luggage. Boys 
bawled newspapers and refreshments. Porters thun¬ 
dered trucks towards and away from the baggage 
vans. The engine contributed a tremendous and spec¬ 
tacular din of escaping steam. Mr. Bywash, sole 
emotionless figure, drifted towards the coach that had 
halted nearest him and drifted in. He scarcely noticed 
the occupants, a man and a woman, seated side by side 
opposite him and at the farther corner. The train 
started. He looked out of the window, seeing, for all 
the countryside conveyed to his mind, as much or as 
little as if a blank wall ’flanked the way. 

When the train had run about twenty minutes he 
altered his position, and made to look across the car¬ 
riage through the further window. Then he noticed 
his companions. The man was a huge, obese creature, 
with a heavy, brutish face, got up in a horsey way, the 
rough publican or bookmaker type. He had enormous 
hands, great, big, red, sledge-hammer hands, and his 
face — the mouth tightly pursed as though he desired 
to show he had no intention of speaking — held the 
expression of a malevolent and threatening smile as if 
there were some ferocious power he had that in his 
chosen time he would exercise. The whole bulk and 
coarseness and brutality of the man, the heavy and 
ferocious aspect that he had, vaguely frightened Mr. 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


43 

By wash. It made him feel uncomfortable, alarmed. 
WHy that dominating and repellent mien? . . . Why 
that mouth thus pursed as though to show he would 
not speak? . . . Why in his face that cynical present¬ 
ment of triumph, of power? . . . Why? Uncomfort¬ 
able, apprehensive, Mr. Bywash slid his eyes to the 
ferocious man’s companion, to the woman; and then 
knew why; and knew, immediately and poignantly, 
extraordinary and mysterious and terrible and immod¬ 
erately alarming sensations. 

She was slightly twisted in her seat so that her face 
was upturned beneath the man’s face. Her face was 
pale. It was pale with a creamy pallor, and it had eyes 
of dim grey, grey with the pearl and exquisite grey¬ 
ness of the last film that lifts above the dawn, and 
shining stuff about the lower lids. . . . (“ Tears! ”* 
thought Mr. Bywash dreadfully. “ Tears! Oh, my, 
she’s crying! ”) And she had soft black hair, low on 
her temples and upon her brow, as shadows on white 
roses, that stirred and lifted in the window’s breeze as 
fronds in the depths of some clear pool. And she was 
talking, talking, talking; she was imploring, imploring,, 
imploring; ceaselessly, piteously, frantically. Mr. 
Bywash could not hear what she was saying; she was 
speaking very low, and there was the rushing noise of 
the train; scarcely the murmur of her tone was dis¬ 
cernible to him. But all too frightfully clear to him 
the fact that she was begging, begging, imploring, 
entreating. It explained the pursed-up lips of that huge 
and ferocious man. She was imploring a word from 
him, and he would not speak a word. It explained 


44 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

that horrible look of his, of triumph and of power that 
in his chosen time he would exercise. She was in 
terror of that triumph, in dismay of that power. 

Mr. Bywash watched; and watched with all these 
mysterious and frightful and never-before-experienced 
feelings swelling and surging within him, and causing 
him fear (which he had often felt, but never for such 
a reason) and aching pity, which he never in his life 
had felt for anybody; and, much worse, bewildering 
and dizzying emotions — yearnings, longings, crav¬ 
ings, high desires of knight errantry, of brave and 
reckless actions; and, worse still, born out of these, 
regret. 

‘Yes, watching the face of that woman, hurt by the 
stresses it aroused within him, there consumed Mr. 
Bywash a great pain of regret, of realisation, of mor¬ 
tification. It was regret at all he had never been, and 
now never could become; it was realisation of all he 
had missed and now could recover never; it was mor¬ 
tification at all he now was — the nerveless, negligible 
entity he knew he looked — and at all the fine and 
shining and valorous things that in the furnace of 
these emotions he most terribly desired to be, and could 
not be. 

He cried inwardly, he could have cried it aloud, “ Oh, 
dear me! ” 

He thought, “ What could I not be? Oh, what 
am I?” 

There answered him, exultingly blared in the rhythm 
of the train, over and over again, thumping it out, 
beating it in: 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 45 

“ Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as 
these 

“ Oh, my goodness! ” He could have jumped out 
of the train . . . 

“ Yes, if you had the pluck! ” 

“ Oh, my goodness! ” These new and frightful 
emotions he was suffering had set within him an articu¬ 
late entity that could talk, and this was the first thing 
it said. “ Yes, you could jump out of the train to 
stop that song and to still your shame, you could jump 
out and end it — if you had the pluck. Ha, ha! If 
you had the pluck! ” 

And while he writhed it went on: “And if you had 
the pluck to jump out, By wash, you wouldn’t want to 
jump out. If you had the pluck to do that you’d have 
the pluck to do splendid things here in the carriage, 
and you’d have the appearance and the strength that 
goes with pluck. You’d get up. You’d interfere. If 
need be, you’d strike that hulking brute. You’d pro¬ 
tect that poor creature. You’d take her. She would 
turn to you, Bywash. She would admire you, she 
would turn to you, she would cling to you, she would 
love you. You’d take her away. She’d be yours, your 
own; yours, your darling, and you her dearly loved, 
her hero — if you had the pluck, By wash! If only you 
were not what you have always been. If only you had 
sought the things in life you’ve never sought. If only 
you had not missed all you have missed. If only you 
were not what you have come to be. If only you were 
your brother Harry, Bywash, or your brother Tom. 


46 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


If only — but listen to the train, Bywash, you’re not 
hearing it Listen!” 

“ Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as 
these.. 

He said between his lips, “ Oh, my God! ” 

* * * * * 

She was still and ceaselessly at it, imploring, beseech¬ 
ing; and the man basilisk, imperturbable, with never 
a word, with only that sinister indifference, with only 
that reserved ferocious threat. Anon she would pause, 
as in exhaustion of despair, and shrink away into her¬ 
self; and By wash would see, and tremble to see, all 
her wrought-up spirit as it were dissolve away in a 
piteous sigh, and that shining stuff upon her lower lids 
fill and discharge itself in a swift crystal 'flash down her 
cheeks; and in a moment she would start, as though 
in panic at the moments suffered to fly empty, and urge 
herself again towards him, and urge again that des¬ 
perate prayer, that most piteous entreaty. Once she 
slid her hand — Bywash saw a wedding ring upon it — 
timidly upon those huge red hands of the man. It was 
the gentlest and most touching motion of appeal. The 
man threw up his hand and jerked hers violently away; 
and the action tore Bywash to the quick; and it did 
other — it frightened him anew. Those sledge-ham¬ 
mer hands; the sight of them and the thought of their 
power alarmed him even more than did the man’s fero¬ 
cious face. The horrible instruments, those hands, of 
all the horrible violences that face might do. 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 47 

“ Interfere! ” mocked the new voice within Mr. 
Bywash. “ Look at those butcher hands of his and 
interfere. Go on! ” 

Bywash bit his lips. 

Once while he stared, and while like one entombed 
searching escape vainly he sought for courage, the man 
looked up and directed upon him a full gaze, and By¬ 
wash dropped his eyes and turned away his head, and 
louder than before the beaten rhythm of the train 
announced: 

“ . . . and some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as 
these.” 

He groaned. 

In a little he screwed up courage to look again; and 
he watched now warily and ready to slip away his eyes 
at an instant’s warning. “ Imagine it,” mocked the 
voice. “ Imagine it; you daren’t even be caught watch¬ 
ing ! ” And once — and this was the most frightful 
and bitterest moment of all — once the woman ceased 
her entreaty and made with her hands a little frantic 
motion of despair and looked swiftly about her in 
obvious quest of help. And Bywash was the sole other 
person there. And her eyes just fleeted a moment on 
his face — fleeted, and were gone, and she made again 
that little frantic motion of despair. 

Oh, bitterest moment and of all most frightful! 
That glance at him and that immediate turning from 
him! As if a mirror it had been he saw therein his 
negligible and useless self. If only he had been Tom, 


48 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

if only he had been Harry, if only he had been any 
other than this he had become! 

“ Oh, my goodness! ” cried Bywash to himself. 

IV 

The train ran into Stormouth. He leaned from the 
window to turn the handle of the door. It was too 
stiff for his feeble wrist. He never before had noticed 
how puny were his arms. The man pushed him uncere¬ 
moniously aside, flicked round the latch without an 
effort, and stepped out. The woman followed. Her 
skirts brushed Bywash. Her knees touched his. It 
was the first contact with a woman that he had ever 
so much as noticed. It thrilled him dreadfully. He 
made a great effort. He said — and knew it as he said 
it for the throaty sound it was — “ Can I help you? ” 

She did not hear. How should she, terrified as he 
had been lest the man should hear ? She did not hear. 
She was gone. She was passing up the platform in the 
man’s wake. 

Was he to let her go like this? Oh, not .after these 
terrible and mysterious emotions, this amazing and 
frightful feeling towards her, that had come at 
him as unexpected flame burst through an opened 
door. Oh, not after that! Oh, not with this 
upon him — these tumults, these revelations, these 
visions of one great act of glorious courage, these 
transports of what would then be won — a look, a 
touch, a word, a bond with her! Not after that! He 
had baggage, but he let it go; he stumbled out of the 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


49 

train; and he pressed anxiously through the busy plat¬ 
forms; and he followed the pair out into the street 
and through many streets. 

The man was walking much too fast for her. There 
was.in his great stride and in the massive hulk of his 
shoulders the same air of vengeful purpose and of 
biding power that his mien in the train had presented; 
there was in her agitated hurrying and in the droop 
of her slender figure the same pitiable appeal that first 
had wrung these frightful tumults out of Mr. Bywash’s 
heart. And she was being hurried to her doom! He 
would get her within doors somewhere, and then- 

Mr. Bywash followed along, keeping safely behind 
and hating himself for his caution. What was he 
going to do ? He didn’t know. But he was trying to 
nerve himself to something, and he was knowing as he 
tried that there was nothing in him to respond to nerv¬ 
ing. He was experiencing all those ardours and those 
valors which spring in young manhood and which 
young manhood, feeling, plants in his breast to be his 
own — and he never had had »any young manhood! 
He was an island castaway come upon treasure and 
without means to enjoy it; he was one that had laid up 
his talent in a napkin, and now sought in vain its yield. 

The passage of the pair was through the streets of 
Stormouth’s commercial quarter. Mr. Bywash lost 
his bearings after many turns. He recovered them 
again as he found himself approaching the district in 
which lay that Prince’s Park where it had been his 
habit on former visits to lounge away the hours lis¬ 
tening to the band. The couple turned down a street 



50 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

he remembered walking on his way to the park. The 
houses here were in a solid row on either side, their 
doors opening directly on to the pavement by two 
steps, and before one the pair halted. Mr. Bywash 
halted also, a dozen doors behind. The man opened 
the door with a key. Mr. Bywash made a great effort 
at his nerves, and came a few paces on. The man went 
up the steps and in. It smote terribly at Bywash’s 
heart that the woman hesitated, faltered. The man 
turned and caught her arm, dragging her roughly. 
Mr. Bywash was trembling, but he advanced. As he 
came abreast of the door it was swung to. He stood 
there trembling. 

He had a glimpse before the door swung; a long, 
narrow passage, on the left a room belonging to the 
window against the entrance by which he stood, at the 
end a flight of stairs. He heard heavy steps up the 
passage and the stairs creak; a darkening behind the 
window told him that one had entered there. The man 
had gone upstairs; the woman was in the room. He 
looked at the door. His heart beat. The door was 
not latched. It was open! Even as he looked it began 
to move in a widening aperture. 

He did a most appalling thing. 

He crept within the door and stood in the passage. 
He was shaking with fear. Overhead were heavy 
movements. In the room beside him was sobbing. 
“ I’m mad. I shall be killed! ” thought Mr. Bywash. 
He went into the room. She was collapsed upon a 
couch, her arms over its back, her head bowed on her 
arms. He stood there. He was trembling. 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 51 

She looked up. She sprung to her feet. “ Oh, what 
is it ? Who are you ? What do you want ? ” 

He was so shaking, he was so strained with listening 
for approach from above, his condition was altogether 
so frightful that he could not speak, not for a full 
minute, while she stared upon him in amazement. 
Then he stammered, “ Can I help you ? ” 

“ Who are you ? Who are you ? ” 

“ I was in the train with you.” 

But what do you want ? What are you doing 
here? I don’t understand. What is it you want?” 

“ I was in the train. I saw what was going on with 
you. I-” 

Her eyes were*round and staring in incomprehension. 
She struck her hands together, bewildered. “ But what 
do you want ? ” 

The moments were flying. He seemed to have been 
hours in this perilous position. At any instant might 
come descent upon the stairs. He was shaking. He 
said, “ I want to help you.” 

She understood. Her eyes that had been wide en¬ 
larged yet more. He knew perfectly well her thought, 
the absurd and futile spectacle he presented! If only 
he were like Tom! If only he were like Harry! He 
knew her thought; and she spoke and gave him her 
thought in its dreadful bitterness. “ You! You! You 
must be mad — you must be.” 

It was awful to hear. His face twitched. He said 
with a catch in his voice, “ I know. I know. But I want 
to. I want to. I saw you. I couldn’t bear it. I felt for 
you. I want to. I want to.” 



52 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

And wider yet her eyes. 

Then she made a quick step to him and put her 
hands on his wrists and pressed him away. “ Go! 
Go! Go at once. While you can. You are mad — 
mad to be here.” 

She was terrified for him, and her terror joined and 
urged his own. But she was touching him! Her 
hands were on his hands, her face was close to his, the 
faint and stirring perfume of her 'flesh. He stood his 
ground. For a brief instant, as one in flush of wine, 
he forgot his fears, “ I want to help you. I want to.” 

She stood away and wrung her hands. “ Oh, what 
can you do? What can you do? You? Go, go! 
He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you.” 

And terror struck across her face, “ Listen! ” 

The change in her countenance, and that hissed, 
dreadful word, froze him. He listened. Footsteps on 
the stairs above. He turned and fled. 

Outside and down the street, his thoughts went: 
Still, he had done it! Craven in that flight of his — 
still, he had done it! He had gone in. He had spoken 
to her. Surely that was brave? Surely it was? Yes, 
it was. He had done that much, that terrific and 
appalling much. He could not then be utterly, not 
utterly, abandoned. True, by that craven flight there 
were confirmed to him all those lamentable exposures 
of himself revealed in the railway carriage. True, he 
was wretched and no man. He knew it now. Still, 
he had done it. . . . He clung on to that. 

Now to do more. He went to the station and 
claimed his bag, carried it to the street of his adven- 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 53 

ture and from the corner surveyed the road. In the 
fanlight of several doorways “ Apartments ” was to be 
seen. There was the house, just by that lamp standard. 
He walked towards it on the other side, and at a 
house three doors opposite inquired for a room, stip¬ 
ulating it must overlook the street, and obtained it. 

He seated himself in the window and watched. 

Early on the following morning, again watching, he 
saw the man come out. The man could not possibly 
see him, but he caught his breath and shrunk away 
behind the curtain. How huge he looked! How 
brutal! Those frightful hands swinging by his sides! 

About midday the woman appeared. She carried a 
shopping bag. He took up his hat and went down¬ 
stairs and followed. 

She made purchases in two or three shops. He kept 
away on the further side, his eyes adoring. Now she 
passed away from the shopping streets and her direc¬ 
tion became the direction of the park. If only she 
were to go there! She was! She was! She entered 
the park, and he followed. 

She went to a secluded seat and took it; and Bywash 
went up to her and she recognized him. 

Now, now began the amazing days! Now life, as 
a walled city opening its gates to one all night without, 
raised its portals and Bywash entered. 

V 

For a long period into that second meeting her part 
was solely of utter incomprehension. She simply 


54 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


could not understand Mr. Bywash, and he was so mani¬ 
festly the futile thing he looked that she made no 
pretence of understanding him. She might have been 
afraid of his approaches; but no living creature could 
possibly be afraid of Mr. Bywash. She might have 
been indignant at his presumption; but his extraor¬ 
dinary manner did not arouse indignation. That was 
just it; he was so utterly out of keeping with the part 
he played. And what was the part he played? She 
simply could not comprehend. Over and over again 
she said to him, he standing there before her, “ But I 
don’t understand. I simply can’t. What is it you 
want ? Why are you speaking to me? I can’t under¬ 
stand.” 

And he could not explain. He could only stammer 
perfectly meaningless things. He wanted to say all 
sorts of things, and could not say them. He was suf¬ 
fering all sorts of emotions, manifested by a lump in 
his throat, by mistiness before his eyes, and he could 
not possibly express them. And she kept on with that, 
“ But what is it you want ? Why are you speaking to 
me?” — telling him as plainly as if she were saying it 
what a figure he looked. 

A moisture dimmed his eyes. She saw it. She said 
quickly: “ I am so sorry; I really am; but really I 
simply cannot understand. I can’t. Believe me, how 
sorry I am.” 

He had to wipe his eyes. This kind note in her 
voice ... It worsened his plight. 

He said, “ The truth is just that I want to talk to 
you. I’ve never spoken to a woman — for that reason 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER-— 55 

— in my life before. I saw you in that carriage yes¬ 
terday, and I saw how wretched you were, and I felt, 
I simply can’t tell you how I felt for you. I’ve never 
felt sorry for any one or cared in the least what hap¬ 
pened to any one, in all my life before. I felt for you 

— I can’t tell you. I can’t explain it even to myself — 
how it happened so suddenly, how I felt it so fright¬ 
fully. I can’t tell you. I wanted to interfere, to say 
something, somehow to help you. I didn’t dare. You 
can see what I am. You saw yesterday when I bolted 
out of your house what I am. It’s no good trying to 
hide it. You can see for yourself. Any one can. I 
wanted to interfere. I didn’t dare. I followed you. 
I had to. I’ve told you why. It was just what came 
over me so frightfully when I looked up at you in the 
carriage. So I had to follow. And then I went in. I 
did do that. Of course I bolted. I bolted directly I 
heard him coming. It’s no good trying to hide what I 
am. But that I did go in — that shows you, I do hope 
it shows you, how frightfully I felt for you, how 
frightfully I do feel for you.” 

He ended, “ That’s all. It’s just what I’ve tried to 
tell you. It’s just that I’ve never spoken to a woman 
in my life — oh, do please let me talk to you. It’s 
incredible that I can be of any help to you. But you 
never know. Perhaps I can. If only I could-” 

She said, “ Oh, do sit down. It is extraordinary, 
this. Even now I can’t quite — But indeed I do thank 
you very much for wanting to help me. I’m glad to 
talk to you. If you were any one else I shouldn’t 
dare. But you — it doesn’t seem to matter with you. 



56 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

You don’t mind my saying that, do you? It really 
doesn’t seem to matter. And I am glad to talk to you. 
There’s no one I’m ever allowed to talk to. When you 
saw me in the carriage — you want to know about that, 
don’t you? — when you saw me, I’d been running 
away. It was the second time I’d tried. He came 
after me and caught me. He was bringing me back.” 

Mr. Bywash said, “ He looked as though he was 

going to-Does he b-” He hardly could 

frame the dreadful word. “ Does he beat you? ” 

She pushed back to the elbow the sleeve of one arm. 
He saw bruisings, scars, and he felt tortured. If only 
he were like Tom! If only he were Harry! If only 
he were any other man than this he was! 

They began, from then, to meet every day. She 
told him her husband was a street bookmaker, his beat 
was in the docks quarter. He was out all day until late 
at night or early in the morning. She never knew at 
what hour he would come in or in what drunken state 
he would arrive. Supper always had to be ready for 
him whatever the hour was, always just ready to the 
turn, or — she indicated those bruised arms. His 
business and his companionship were with the roughest 
men; often he brought dreadful men to the house at 
night; but every one was afraid of him; he always 
carried a revolver. (That made Mr. Bywash wince. 
It was a thing he always remembered.) 

She told him her life story. It was difficult to 
imagine a confidant being made of Mr. Bywash; but 
misery makes odd companions, and she was abject in 
misery and in loneliness. Her attitude towards him 




SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 57; 

was that she welcomed his company as the prisoner in 
his cell the timid mouse. 

She told him all about herself. Her father had been 
a Master in the Merchant Service. 

“ Why, my father was in the Navy,” cried Mr. 
Bywash. It seemed to make a bond between them. 
“ In the Royal Navy; he was a Captain.” 

It was the first time he had ever been proud of his 
father’s position; the first time he had ever thought 
about it. How wonderful to be talking intimately 
like this! 

Her father was drowned at sea. She and her mother 
were left penniless, here in Stormouth. They started 
to take in lodgers — first a good class, and then, not 
getting them, a poor class; and then, still struggling, 
and her mother ailing, any class that chance would 
bring. So this man came, Mr. Wilks, of whom always 
she had been terrified, with whom ultimately, he desir¬ 
ing her, she was forced into marriage. Her mother 
was failing, her mother needed comforts; at last, if 
her life was to be saved, needed better conditions alto¬ 
gether, and there was scarcely enough to keep the roof 
over their heads. Then the man Wilks offered her 
marriage, promises for her mother’s well-being, every¬ 
thing that they most desperately needed. She was ter¬ 
rified. To offend him was to risk losing their sole 
means of support; but she could not bring herself to 
accede. She refused him. Her mother worsened, and, 
knowing only cunning kindness from the man, began 
to implore her consent. But she could not. She simply 
could not. 


58 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

Pitiably she presented to Mr. By wash her life at that 
period; attending on her mother, attending on the 
man; besought by her motherland watching her dying 
before her eyes; baited by the man and frightened of 
him. 

O pitiable! Mr. Bywash had not the remotest idea 
such things went on in life. Without interests and 
without solicitudes in his own existence, he had never 
even troubled to imagine how other people existed. 
That this kind of thing should be! That she should 
suffer it! 

Ultimately she gave way; she married Wilks. 

Her mother, betrayed in every promise, died within 
the year. That was five years ago. That was all. 
She twice, as she had said, had tried to run away. He 
kept her without money. She had stolen from him 
that with which she had made the attempt whose 
lamentable termination Mr. Bywash had seen. She 
never would have the chance again. Where could she 
go, how could she live, if ever she had again the 
chance? And one day he would kill her. She knew 
he would. Escape—she must escape. Where? 
How? 

She wrung her hands, piteously regarding Mr. 
Bywash. That was all. 

Escape? Where? How? Terrible and enormous 
enterprises began to shake the mind of Mr. By wash. 

VI 

But, O, the new, amazing life amid which these 
terrible and enormous enterprises began to form; the 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 59 

revelations, the ecstasies, out of which, as high sparks 
springing out of flame, they sprung! 

All he had never been, all he had never known, 
stirred, moved, breathed, warmed, awoke, and came to 
life within him. As wine through exhausted senses, 
as rain among the baked and arid water-courses of the 
plains, as dew by night upon the desert, as springtide 
in hibernating homes of creature and of insect, as all 
of these, so, within Mr. Bywash, saps that had never 
flowed, pulses that had never beat, ardours that had 
never kindled, emotions whose suns had never dawned, 
perceptions whose eyes had opened never. 

He loved! The spirit breathed upon the waters of 
his being, and that which had been void and purpose¬ 
less took form and movement. He loved! The world, 
which had contained for him nobody and nothing, con¬ 
tained a glorious and wondrous other, and through her 
teemed, hymned, and radiated with glories and with 
wonders. He had never opened his heart to himself, 
much less to another. He opened it to her, and the 
flood of its outpouring was beyond words delicious to 
him. He told her all his life as she had told him hers. 
He told her of his father and his mother, of Harry 
and of Tom. Oh, wonderful to have some one to whom 
to tell such things! Oh, wonderful in such things to find 
a pride and warming of the heart. And oh, when he 
was absent from her, what dreams, what visions, what 
revelations of new worlds! He never had read any¬ 
thing except desultorily the newspaper. He began now 
to be voracious of reading tales of love. Cheap, trashy 
stuff, their hectic covers and their burning titles were 


6o SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


his only guide to them. The love they told was all he 
sought in them, skipping all else that they contained. 
How the hero loved and how the heroine loved; how 
their love came to them; how they felt their love and 
how they declared their love — that was all he wanted. 
Avid to be schooled in love, and their transports to 
compare with his, his surgings to express in terms of 
theirs, hungrily from these cheap and crudely written 
prints he tore love as from a bone a starving animal 
tears meat. He took out pages and carried them with! 
him; transcribed passages and got them by heart. 

One day she told him her name was Enid. 

Enid! 

There were three outstanding things that happened 
in his reading. They came from sources incomparably 
above the stuff whereon he feasted, and in the case of 
two, but that they came upon him detached and 
removed from their surrounding confusions, would 
have been beyond his taste. 

One was the lines printed beneath a water-colour 
painting of a bowl of violets hanging in a print-seller’s 
window: 

“ .violets dim, 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 
Or Cytherea’s breath. . .” 

It smote him like a catch at his throat. Once when 
she was talking to him she had closed her eyes, and he 
had trembled to see the exquisite delicacy of her lids. 
White; and yet not white for having the faintest, 
softest tinge of blue. He had gazed as a pilgrim might 



SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 61 

gaze upon a shrine. He had never imagined such a hue 
could be. Lo, here was the very expression of it; the 
inexpressible expressed exactly; the vision so ethereal 
that he never could precisely recall it, here precisely 
recalled “ Violets dim . . . ” Yes! Yes! And 
sweeter — “ Sweeter than . . . Cytherea’s breath.” 
That meant if you stooped to touch with your lips a 
bed of violets. Yes! Yes! Exactly that if one might 
stoop to kiss those lids of hers! Wonderful! Won¬ 
derful ! That was what he wanted — words to express 
these astounding things, these exquisite and wondrous 
things. 

The second occasion touched a profounder depth 
and led directly to the third. This was before the 
second-hand bookseller’s from whose tray of cheap 
moderns and periodicals he distilled his love potions. 
Within the window were displayed volumes of the 
poets; opened, their leaves bound back with bands. 
Searching amid his sensational covers, his eye glanced 
up to the books and negligently took a verse: 

“ I held it truth with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones.” 

Meaningless! But his eye, on the point of returning 
to his quest, was held, and completed the stanza: 

“ That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things.” 

Ah! He caught his breath with the sound as it 
were of a sob. 

On stepping-stones — may rise on stepping-stones 
. . . of their dead selves ... to higher things. . . . 


62 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


Might they? Could they? Might he? Could he? 
Could he get himself like Tom — like Harry? Could 
he rise to their courage, to their bold, manly qualities ? 
Was it possible that on stepping-stones of those shock¬ 
ing infirmities of spirit of which he now was so poig¬ 
nantly aware he could rise to — to courage? Not 
shrink? Not tremble? Not shudder every time there 
came across his mind the image of that violent and 
frightful man? Not know that in a crisis, that if a 
crisis ever came between that man and her and him, 
not know that in such a crisis inevitably he would 
desert her? Was it possible? 

He turned from the bookshop, new matter from 
that which had taken him there in his mind, and the 
wind toppled the upmost of a pile of battered second¬ 
hand rag-bag stuff. He stooped to replace it, and his 
thumb was upon the concluding words of the volume: 

" • • • So he passed over, and all the trumpets 
sounded for him on the other side.” 

He looked at the title. Pilgrim’s Progress. He 
read again, two lines higher: 

“ • • • to the river side, into which as he went he said, 

‘ Death where is thy sting?* And as he went down 
deeper he said, ‘ Grave where is thy victory ? * So he 
passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the 
other side.” 

Courage! Courage! O matchless courage here! 

He bought the book — tuppence! — and hurried 
with it to his lodging. 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 63 


VII 

He was back at Tidborough. 

He was planning her escape. 

He had for some time known a little empty cottage on 
the outskirts of the village of Penny Green, a few 
miles from Tidborough. He sold a portion of the 
investment left him by his father and bought the 
cottage; and now the rapturous delights of searching 
shops to furnish and adorn it— for her! 

Before he left her, on the termination of his holiday, 
he told her of the cottage and of the escape it offered 
her. He pretended the cottage was already his; “ on 
his hands,” as he put it, and would be all the better 
for a tenant. How was she to live ? That was simple. 
There was an immense demand for furnished rooms 
in and around Penny Green; it had always been, he 
said, an idea of his to put into this cottage some one 
who could let off the two spare rooms there would be; 
it was really a piece of luck for him to find her for 
the purpose. 

That was how he put it. That the demand for rooms 
in Penny Green was much greater than the supply 
was true; he knew it well in the course of his duties 
at the estate office. The inventions of his story — the 
cottage “ on his hands,” the service she would do him 
by occupying it — were for the purpose of maintaining 
the part on which, quite well he knew, alone rested her 
acceptance of his comradeship; the prisoner’s mouse, 
the strange but welcome visitant of her incarceration. 
No more than that; and as, in their meetings, he had 


64 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

never dared to hint at his love, so now, in his plan for 
her escape, he sedulously presented no more than 
kindliness. To hint at more risked giving her alarm, 
severance of their friendship, refusal of his aid. And 
threatened worse than that. He knew she never had 
remotely imagined feelings of love for him; but he 
felt it surely would kill him to hear it, in actual fact, 
from her lips. He was as one knowingly carrying 
within him sentence of death in form of mortal sick¬ 
ness but terrified to present himself to the physician 
and hear his doom. Therefore his acceptance of his 
part, therefore his inventions, therefore his reiteration 
to her only of this most true portion of his case — 
that never in his life till now had he had any one to 
talk to; that talking to her, telling her all about him¬ 
self, was the most exquisite happiness he ever had 
imagined, and that he begged her, in charity, to accept 
this means of escape so that he still might come over to 
her in his leisure hours and sit — and just talk. 

In his daydreams he dreamt to himself that one day, 
one day . . . 

One day. . . . He was arranging her escape. He 
was planning also the winning of her love, to which 
gratitude for her escape should be the first step. She 
never could love him as he was, of that he was assured. 
The task was to remake himself ... on stepping- 
stones ... of his dead self ... to become a man 
. . . not to shrink . . . not to tremble . . . not to be 
one useless mass of fears ... to be a man ... like 
Tom . . . like Harry . . . like other men . . 
age . . . courage! 


. cour- 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 65 

The battered Pilgrim's Progress, more battered for 
his ceaseless use of it, was now his daily sustenance. 
As he had torn love from his periodicals, so now vo¬ 
raciously he sought to tear courage from the leaves of 
Bunyan’s story. The allegorical significance was no 
more to him than, in search of love, had been the plots 
of the novels. It had been solely the emotions and the 
expressions of love his heart desired; it now was solely 
the emotions and expressions of courage for which his 
spirit craved. He read the book again and again; and 
every snatch of reading he terminated with the enor¬ 
mous elixir of that concluding line : 

“ So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for 
him on the other side.” 

That tingled him. That set his foot upon those dead- 
self stepping-stones and raised him up. He used to 
imagine himself doing some mighty and splendid thing, 
and all the trumpets sounding for him as he went 
proudly toward her, proudly, lovingly awaiting him. 
That was the thing! That was it! One day . . . One 
day. . . . 

All was ready. He was walking to the cottage for 
a last indulgence in the sight of all the beauty and 
the comforts he had prepared for her. To-morrow was 
the day fixed. Everything was planned, and she had 
written confirming the plans. In case, after her flight, 
inquiries should be made at the station, she was to take 
the morning express train to London. That would 
throw her husband off the scent. From London a train 
would get her to Tidborough at three o’clock. He 


66 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


would not meet her at the station. He was to have 
the ecstasy (“the pleasure ” as he had temperately 
expressed it in writing to her) of welcoming her in the 
cottage, “ which I think you will find ” — another care¬ 
ful expression of the mere friendliness that was his — 
“ which I think you will find more or less ready for 
you.” 

More or less! The quaint old cottage, beautiful in 
itself, lent its interior to beauty in its decoration. Love 
gave him taste. There was not an article he had pur¬ 
chased, nor one he had placed in position, but her face 
had been imagined against it, directing his perceptions 
as the North Star the wanderer. A neighbouring cot¬ 
tager, Mrs. Jennings, had been brought in daily to assist 
the arranging. Stepping in with him on his arrival on 
this last evening, she gave the admiration that was en¬ 
chantment to him to hear. 

“ Well, if it isn’t a picture!” declared Mrs. Jennings, 
gazing round the parlour. “ A picture. I never would 
have believed to see the like of it outside of a real pic¬ 
ture; I declare to goodness I wouldn’t, and that’s the 
truth, sir.” 

How pleased he was! He patted the head of tiny 
Laura, Mrs. Jennings’s little girl, and with his other 
hand felt in his pocket for Laura’s present that was to 
celebrate this splendid conclusion. 

“ Yes, it certainly does look nice, Mrs. Jennings. 
And, Mrs. Jennings, you’re going to let Laura be over 
here to-morrow to be playing here when the lady 
arrives ? ” 

Mrs. Jennings certainly was. She would just pop 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 67 

Laura inside on her way to work after lunch, and there 
she’d be, all nice and pretty for the lady. 

“ And playing with her musical box,” smiled Mr. By¬ 
wash, producing the present from his pocket. 

How tiny Laura jumped and clapped her hands for 
joy! She had been promised anything she liked from 
the toyshops at Tidborough, and a musical box had 
been her choice. Mr. Bywash, in so far as he had 
ever noticed them at all, had always detested children. 
The new emotions that now were his had welcomed 
tiny Laura. He loved to see her playing about the 
floor. Enid would want a companion; she would love 
to have tiny Laura with her. He used to sit and imagine 
Enid with the child on her knee, telling her stories ; 
Enid making tea, with the child clutching at her skirts. 
It made him feel — indescribable; it made his heart 
swell. 

Mrs. Jennings ran off to her cottage. He sat him¬ 
self down in the chair specially chosen for Enid’s com¬ 
fort. Tiny Laura at his feet fumbled the musical box 
out of its wrappings. 

To-morrow! This time to-morrow Enid would be 
here. She would have examined the beauties of the 
cottage. She would be making tea for him. She would 
be enchanted. She would be beyond expression happy. 
In her heart would be the beginnings of her gratitude. 
The beginnings . . . the beginnings. . . . 

“ Now you’re right, Laura. Turn the handle. Let’s 
hear the pretty tunes.” 

He only knew of the toy that the girl in the shop had 


68 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


called it a “ three-tune ” box. He smiled to see tiny 
Laura’s tongue come out and move from side to side 
under the strain of her melody making. The tinkling 
tune was vaguely familiar; some popular air; he had 
probably heard it on street organs, perhaps in the park 
at Stormouth. He wondered if Enid could play the 
piano, and how much one would cost. Imagine sitting 
here of an evening while she played! 

The musical box clicked. The music stopped. 

“ Go on, Laura. Wind on. Another one coming.” 

Yes, a piano. .A piano would be fine if he could 
afford it. It could stand by the window there. How 
beautiful she would look seated at the keys. How she 
would love this room. To-morrow at this hour she 
would be here. How grateful she would be to him. 
How wonderful, indeed, that he had done all this. 
Planned her escape, purchased this home, furnished 
it. It had wanted some doing! It had! It was not a 
thing every one could have carried out so successfully. 
How he had developed in these last few weeks! He 
was twice, he was a dozen times the man he used to be. 
Stepping-stones ... of those dead selves. He was 
climbing up. . . . He was . . . He was certain of 
it. . . . 

“ Go on, Laura. Wind away. Still another. Here, 
let me do this one.” He stooped forward and took the 
box. Yes, climbing up. . . . Would never look back 
now. . . . He wound the handle — 

“ Some talk of Alexander, and some .of Hercules; 

Of Hector and-” 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 69 

“ Take it, Laura. Take it away. You’d better go 
home now. You’re to go home now. Don’t you hear ? 
No; don’t play it. You’re not to wind it. Time to go 
now. Don’t you hear ? ” 

Laura was frightened. 

* * * * * 

The day was Thursday; early-closing day at Tid- 
borough and chosen for that reason. He left the office 
at one o’clock. He had bought a “best suit ” since this 
new thing had come into his life, and he went first to 
his lodgings to spruce himself up in it before going 
on to the cottage to await her. His spirits were high. 
The night had been bad. He had scarcely slept. That 
tune, that hateful tune, coming like that, had upset him. 
Through the night it had washed about the foundations 
of his new beliefs in himself as rising waters about tim¬ 
bers built in sand. Had he changed? Had he im¬ 
proved? If there came to his courage a test. . . . Was 
it an omen, that accursed tune, coming like that, in that 
place, at that hour, made by his own hands ? 

A feverish and tortured night. 

But with the morning his oppression had gone. Af¬ 
ter all, at the worst, if indeed he was no more than the 
man he had been, even then, what test of his courage 
could possibly be? When she was safely arrived here 
she would be as secure here, and he would be as secure 
here, as if they were on another continent. It became 
easy as the morning advanced to build up from this 
certitude of safety assurance of courage if there were 
danger. 

It always is. 


70 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

He was working briskly upon it as he let himself 
into his lodgings and passed up the stairs to his room. 
Everything was safe. Everything was easy. Every¬ 
thing was wonderful and glorious. He was miles re¬ 
moved from the timid thing he had been. He could 
wish there might be some test of his manhood that Enid 
could see. If the horse that would be drawing her cab 
were to run away and he rush out from the cottage and 
stop it! If a bull were to frighten her in the lane out¬ 
side and he most audaciously attack the brute and 
rescue her! Something like that! Ah, if there could be 
something like that! 

But it was not anything like that. It was something 
quite different. 

As he opened the door of his room and stepped 
within, the huge and malevolent form of her husband 
rose to greet him. 

“ Shut that door,” said Mr. Wilks. 

He turned and shut it. 

One of those huge fists of Mr. Wilks presented a re¬ 
volver in his face. The other fist shot into his chest, 
staggering him backwards and there clutched him, 
gathering up waistcoat and shirt in its enormous paw, 
and shook him ferociously so that his teeth knocked 
together. “ Where’s my wife? ” 

His tongue, in his sheer terror, clove to the roof of 
his mouth. He could not speak. 

“ Where is she? Out with it! ” 

“ Not here.” 

Again that frightful shaking, jerking his head to 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 71 

and fro. “Not here! I can see that with my own 
eyes, can’t I ? Is she in this house ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Coming here ? ” 

“ No.” 

He was shaken as if the breath were to be shaken 
from his body. “ Listen to me. I know you’ve got her 
away.” He called her by a gross epithet. “ The — 
left half your letters behind. I know you’ve got her.” 
Mr. Wilks returned the revolver to his pocket and put 
up the fist that had held it, elenched, terrific. “ Am 
I going to start this on your face, or are you going to 
tell me ? Quick with it! ” 

“ I’ll tell you.” 

“ Quick with it.” 

He told. 

Mr. Wilks flung him away. He staggered along the 
wall, crashed into the washing stand and fell over it 
to the floor. The ewer capsized. The water drenched 
him. 

“Get up!” commanded Mr. Wilks. “You louse! 
Run away with a man’s wife! You! Get up and show 
the way, and me lady’ll see what I’m going to do with 
you, and you’ll see what I’m going to do with me lady. 
Up with you! ” 


VIII 

They were in the cottage, waiting for her. Mr. 
Wilks lolled in an armchair, a cigar in his mouth, his 
legs on the table. Hector Bywash sat opposite him, 


72 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

the table between them, his head bowed in his hands. 
In the little room adjoining was tiny Laura. Mr. Wilks, 
engaged on arrival in ferocious mockery of the deco¬ 
rations of the pretty parlour, had not appeared to notice 
the child. Hector had got her out of view and shut 
the door upon her. 

While they waited was heard the steady ticking of 
the clock upon the wall, bringing her closer; the heavy 
breathing of Mr. Wilks, inclined to doze; the occasional 
sharp intake of Hector’s breath, in vision watching her 
approach to his betrayal of her; sometimes through the 
door the faint tinkle of the musical box. 

Hector Bywash, head buried in his hands, was silently 
rocking in agony of this culmination to which he had 
brought his life, his new-found dreams, his new-raised 
hopes in himself. 

All his life’s uselessness and turpitude had culminated 
in this unspeakable betrayal of the woman he wor¬ 
shipped. “ Where’s my wife? ” and, vilest thing that 
he was, immediately he had betrayed her. His mind 
ran up and down his life that had brought him to this 
final perfidy; he groaned aloud. 

“ Shut that,” commanded Mr. Wilks drowsily, and 
he was silent. 

His mind, as one that runs distractedly to and fro, 
wringing his hands before his house in flames, ran 
up and down his every scene with her, his every thought 
of her; and from each scene and thought came back 
to this betrayal of her, this trap to which now, in a 
few minutes, she came. His mind stood among the 
ecstasies of love he had torn from his books; it cried 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 73 

with a most terrible bitterness before the heights of 
courage which fondly he believed he had absorbed from 
his Pilgrim's Progress. And always back to his be¬ 
trayal of her. 

And suddenly there penetrated the agony of his mind 
this most frightful thought, “ There is still time to save 
her!" 

Some men successfully flee judgment all their lives; 
wriggle from truth, stifle truth, somehow get away and 
escape truth. Mr. By wash all his life had thus escaped. 
He now was run to earth. He was caught. Truth had 
him. 

This happened then to Mr. Bywash. There came to 
him, as comes to men thus captured, trial within his 
own bosom of the kind that is said to await all men in 
the last senate of eternity; as then before God, so here 
within their hearts, truth’s prisoners protest their case 
before the verities seated in judgment about them. 

Mr. Bywash, laid by the heels after a very long run 
of freedom, stood now in such a court; a very tiny 
figure, prisoner at the bar of truth, a very pitiable object 
for the assemblage of so tremendous a tribunal, and 
looked from the records of his life hung upon the walls 
to the faces of the verities sitting as arbiters upon his 
case, and wrung his hands, and thus protested. 

The Defendant: My Lords, my Lords, it’s all 
very well. My Lords, you see, my Lords, you must 
surely see, it was like this. If only I had had a minute’s 
preparation; if only, as I went up those stairs, I had 
known he was waiting in my room; if only I had even 


74 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 

heard him when I was just the other side of the door; 
if only I had had the smallest, faintest warning I would 
have had time to think, I would have had time to steel 
myself, and I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t. In¬ 
deed and indeed, my Lords, I would not have done it. 

The Arbiters : Attend. You have time now. Time 
to think, time to steel yourself, time to prevent it. You 
have betrayed her, but she has not yet come to your 
betrayal. She is on the road. But there are — look 
at the clock — twenty minutes before she can get here. 
Twenty minutes between you and what you will be for 
ever after. Twenty minutes not to do it, and you have 
not done it yet. Twenty minutes to save her. 

The court adjourned and the Defendant with shaking 
limbs crept out of the court. 

Mr. Bywash very cautiously raised his bowed head 
to the level of the table. The huge soles of Mr. Wilks’s 
boots confronted him. He raised his glance above 
them. Mr. Wilks’s eyes were half closed; no glow was 
to be seen upon the cigar that depended from his mouth. 

Mr. Bywash’s mind fixed upon the revolver that had 
been pointed at him. He knew which pocket it was in. 
If he could get that. . . . The light table was so small 
that its further end was beneath Mr. Wilks’s thighs, 
and Mr. Wilks’s chair was tilted back. If he gave one 
great heave from beneath the table . . . and then a 
dash and a grab for the revolver while the man was 
sprawling ... if he did that ... if he could . . . 
if he dared. . . . 

Ten minutes passed. He went back into the court, 
and the court re-assembled to hear him. 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


75 

The Defendant: My Lords, my Lords, it’s like 
this. You see, if I did attack him, what could I 
possibly do ? I’m ready to try. I’m perfectly ready to 
do it. I swear I am. But what earthly good could I 
do ? Any one looking at me and looking at him would 
say it would be grotesque and useless folly. In two 
minutes I should be killed. My Lords, my Lords, isn’t 
that the fact? Isn’t that true ? What earthly good? 
In two minutes I should be killed. 

The Arbiters : Be killed, then. 

The Defendant covered his face with his hands and 
bowed, as beneath an insupportable weight, to the 
ground. 

The Arbiters (unmoved) : Be killed, then. 

From the Defendant, prone upon the ground, no 
word. 

The Arbiters : Be killed, then. That will save her. 

The Defendant (screaming) : How? How? 
How can it save her ? 

The Arbiters: Attend. You have never faced 
the truth in your life. You are facing it now. You 
have always argued yourself out of every danger. You 
now cannot argue yourself out. Be killed. It will save 
her. If you are killed, he will have murdered you. He 
will 'flee for his life. He will never dare to come near 
her again. She will be free of him for ever. You have 
five minutes, Bywash. 

The court withdrew, and left Mr. By wash. 


76 SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER— 


IX 


Be killed, then . . . 

He thought “ On stepping-stones ... of their dead 
selves. . . . One quick moment and it will all be over. 
... At once. ... If I don’t do it at once. . . . ” 

He put his hands beneath the table. He sprang up¬ 
right and hurled the table up and back. He flung him¬ 
self upon the sprawling, cursing body, and dived, and 
thrust his hand and the revolver was in his hand. He 
was clutched and overthrown. They were somehow 
upon their feet. The revolver was in his right hand. 
The left hand of Mr. Wilks was upon it. The other 
hand was at his throat, throttling him. 

This is what happened. 

The revolver was muzzle upwards in their united 
grasp between them. They held it elbow to elbow, 
forearm to forearm, wrist to wrist, knuckle to knuckle. 
It was poised between them and, like the dial of a 
pressure gauge, moved now to this side, now to that, 
now tensely quivered at the apex of its movement. 
Sometimes it went a little nearer Mr. Wilks’s chin, 
sometimes a little nearer the chin of Mr. Bywash, some¬ 
times trembled almost at rest midway between them. 

Mr. By wash’s face was black with the pressure of 
Mr. Wilks’s fingers upon his throat. But while the 
eyes of Mr. Wilks bulged with fear and savagery, as 
he strove for possession of the weapon, the eyes of 
Mr. Bywash shone with an intense and an extraordinary 
light. The deep waters of death were about him, and 
he knew himself descending into death; but he might 


SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER- 


77 


have said, “ Death, where is thy sting? ” And he felt 
his strength going, and knew the end was upon him; 
but he might have said, “ Grave, where is thy victory? ” 

An enormous exaltation of mind was his. There 
was a great roaring in his ears, but it was to him as the 
clamour of many voices acclaiming him. He relaxed 
his arm, and the revolver came with a thud to his 
neck and was discharged. 

He collapsed at the knees in the arms of Mr. Wilks. 
He collapsed at the waist and fell away in the arms of 
Mr. Wilks, his head hanging. 

Mr. Wilks stared with starting eyes upon his face. 
Mr. Wilks said terribly, “ My God! ” 

He dropped the body of Hector By wash, and stood 
away and stared in terror. He turned and rushed from 
the house. A cab was drawing up at the door. The 
driver shouted. Mr. Wilks put up his hands to hide 
his face, and turned and fled. 

She came in and she ran to him and knelt beside him 
and put her arms about him and she heard very faintly, 
“ Beloved! ” 

A small sigh passed then from the lips of Mr. By¬ 
wash, and there tinkled from the adjoining room : 

“ Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander - ” 

So, to that threnody, he passed over; and it was per¬ 
haps, as he had wished, that all the trumpets sounded 
for him on the other side. 



THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL AND THE 
SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 




















THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL AND THE 
SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 


Anything rougher for her years (twelve) than the 
rough little girl has probably never been known. “ Oh, 
darling,” her mother used to sigh and say to her, “ Oh, 
darling, you are rough ”: to which the rough little girl 
used responsively to sigh and “ Oh, Cherishable ” would 
reply (she always called her mother Cherishable, being 
much devoted to her). “Oh, Cherishable, I know I 
am”; and would sigh again, being ever so distressed 
at distressing her most dear mother, but also knowing 
herself to be hopelessly the slave of the quick, im¬ 
petuous, imperious spirit that was hers. She was rough. 

And anything gentler, that is to say smoother, for 
her years (eleven) than the smooth little girl is equally 
impossible to believe. “ Swipes, Lily,” her father used 
to say to her (Swipes being a coarse expression he often 
used, and Lily the name of the little girl who was 
smooth), “ Swipes, Lily, one’d think you were a pau¬ 
per’s child the way you creep about. You aren’t half 
quiet, Lily.” To which “ Oh, Father,” the smooth little 
girl would reply, “ Oh, Father, it is hard to be noisy 
when you’re not.” She was smooth. 

So there they were, the two of them, rough and 
smooth; and the very odd, strange circumstance about 
them is that each occupied the position in life which, 


82 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


if half we are told were true, should have been occupied 
by the other. A rough little girl may be expected to 
have rough parents, a vulgar home and rude antece¬ 
dents: a smooth little girl almost certainly will have 
gentle parents, elevating surroundings and antecedents 
cultured and refined. The contrary is here the case. 
The rough little girl had every social and domestic ad¬ 
vantage; the smooth little girl had none. The origins 
of the family of the rough little girl were rooted back 
beyond 1066, when the first Chilperine (her name) 
came over with William the Conqueror and fought be¬ 
side him at the Battle of Hastings: the origins of the 
smooth little girl were darkly and impenetrably obscure 
prior to forty years ago, when the first Pook (her 
father) was employed in washing the dishes in a hot- 
sausage shop in the Mile End Road. 

This must be presented in greater detail. 

Anything more swagger, blue-blooded, aristocratic, 
and altogether superior and splendid than the family 
of the rough little girl it is impossible in all the Peerage 
of the United Kingdom to discover. True, there was 
no peerage, or title of any sort, in the family of Chil¬ 
perine : that there was not was part of their pride. Over 
and over again, as generation succeeded generation, they 
could have been ennobled; but over and over again, as 
Chilperine on Chilperine added lustre to his line, they 
refused to be ennobled. “ I am a Chilperine,” they 
used to say: and when they said that (or thought it) 
there was no more to be said. It was their motto. " Sui 
il Chiefs Pelrins.” Which is, being interpreted out of 
the old Norman-French in which it was said after Hast- 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 83 

ings by the first Chilperine to his sovereign, “I am the 
Pilgrim Knight.” Time has corrupted Chiefs Pelrins 
into Chilperine,-and usage has turned the family saying 
into “lama Chilperine”; but “ I am the Pilgrim 
Knight ” was the translation always kept to by the 
rough little girl, and the whole legend shows you, any¬ 
way, how splendid and superior the Chilperines were. 

A visit to the castle would show you more. Chil¬ 
perine, for its treasury of art, as Chilperine itself as 
monument of beauty and romance, is the show place of 
show places of England. Of every aspect books might 
be (and have been) written. Let us here, and have 
done with it, make a note on but one — that Great 
Gallery of Chilperine wherein are ranged the Chilperine 
portraits. There in the Great Gallery they stand, those 
mighty Chilperines, and there among them often had 
stood the rough little girl, regarding them (rough as 
she was and little as she was) with that same pride, 
at once lofty and tolerant, at once conscious and unas¬ 
suming, that is, as they say, “the Chilperine look.” 

Now turn to the smooth little girl. 

A sharper turn cannot possibly be imagined. Her 
father was called —Pook! His origin was —a hot- 
sausage shop! His motto was — Pork! It really is 
too vulgar. One cannot, after the air of Chilperine 
Castle, bear it. We must skip the years (as Mr. Pook 
porked through them) and come to him at the time 
he entered the story here presented. He was still por¬ 
cine. He was still vulgar. But he was at least clean 
and he was rich —oh, rich, rich, rich! Rolling in 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


84 

riches! He was a millionaire. They said he was a 
multi-millionaire. 

How could he be so rich? How could a man who 
started in life washing dishes in a hot-sausage shop 
become a- 

The answer hit in the eye wherever such questioner 
chanced to turn his eye. Was the questioner travelling 
in the train ? Let him glance from the window. What 
did he see? He saw at every mile, he saw on every 
hilltop, marring the countryside, in letters twelve feet 
high, 

POOR’S PORKY PUFFS 

Was he walking the business streets of our cities? 
Let him but lift his eyes. What sign was that above 
that marble-fronted restaurant? 

POOR’S PORK PALACE 

The rise of Mr. Pook from hot sausages to six- 
cylindered motor cars, from poverty to enormous 
wealth, is explained. Genius did it. Contrast the term 
Porky Puff with the term Pork Pie: the dainty sug¬ 
gestiveness of the one with the sinister deadliness (to 
many) of the other. That was Genius. Compare — 
but you could not compare — the flavour of the two. 
That was Genius. The flavour was not pork — it was 
porky. Pork may have been the basis of it: the flavour 
that came to the palate was a delicious something re¬ 
miniscent of cold turkey, of cold pheasant, of cold veni¬ 
son ; and, when the porky puff was served piping hot, 



AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 85 

of turkey, of pheasant and of venison tender as a piece 
of butter and cooked to a turn. By genius, Mr. Pook 
produced for this exquisite morsel a casket (the puff) 
flaky, creamy, melty, as the commonplace pork pie is 
ironclad, stubborn and unyielding. By genius he sold 
it, singly, in pairs, threes, half-dozens, or dozens, in car¬ 
tons so dainty to the eye, so handy for the pocket or 
the hamper that, as was said a thousand times a day, 
it seemed a shame to open them. By flash on flash of 
genius, new wonders devised he out of his initial won¬ 
der : Princess Porky Puffs for the luncheon tables 
of the elite; Party Porky Puffs for the light-refresh¬ 
ment tables of social gatherings of every degree; Picnic 
Porky Puffs for the tourist and traveller; finally 
Pioneer Porky Puffs, packed in air-tight tins and bear¬ 
ing his written guarantee to keep sweet and fresh for 
ever, to go forth to give new life and sustenance to 
those facing hardship and privation in the wild places 
of the earth. 

I am writing for gentle readers and I therefore have 
pleasure in adding that, as might be expected, and as 
has already been hinted, Mr. Pook, self-made million¬ 
aire, was vulgar and blatant; and that his ostentatious 
wealth and his horrible advertising monstrosities caused 
his name (but not his porky puffs) to be held in repro¬ 
bation by all nice people. Mr. Pook felt this. Con¬ 
stantly sneered at in smart papers, he felt very severely 
these attacks on his personality, and the persistent and 
not veiled cold-shouldering with which were greeted his 
efforts to get into society. A widower, he had but one 
child, the smooth little girl, upon whom he most pas- 


86 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


sionately doted, for whom with a really pathetic in¬ 
tensity he longed for social place and recognition, and 
largely on whose account he did the terrific thing that 
causes this story to be written. The Chilperines, im¬ 
poverished by death duties and by taxation, were forced 
to sell Chilperine — and Mr. Pook bought it! 

Within the space of four years there fell in the Great 
War the father of the rough little girl and his only son 
and heir. There were left but the mother of the rough 
little girl and the rough little girl herself, and the day 
came when the trustees of the estate, assembled in the 
Castle, told Mrs. Chilperine that ownership no longer 
could be maintained. 

When I tell you that the mother of the rough little 
girl, when the trustees looked at her across the table 
for her assent, could not speak, but just drooped back 
in her chair and drew from her bosom the Chilperine 
rose she wore there and suffered it to fall to the floor; 
and when I tell you that the rough little girl, rough 
as she was, cried out in a very strange voice, “ Leave 
Chilperine! Oh, Cherishable, we can’t, we can’t! ” you 
will realise what was this disaster to those called upon 
to bear it. When I tell you of the shocked amaze with 
which, in leading articles, the news of the impending 
sale of Chilperine was commented upon by the Press, 
of the Letters To the Editor (“ whose every stone, sir, 
is a page of England’s story ”), of the campaign (nuga¬ 
tory) to cause Chilperine to be purchased for the nation 
(“this final crime in the record of the government’s 
crushing policy of waste and spoliation”), you will 
realise the howl that went up to high heaven when it 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 87 

was made known that the purchaser of Chilperine, the 
new occupant of the Castle, the new owner of its treas¬ 
ures, was — Pook! 

You can imagine, at the howl, the feelings of Mr. 
Pook; you can imagine, at their departure, the feelings 
of the rough little girl and of her mother. Dry-eyed, 
as Chilperines must, but with their hands terribly each 
in each, mother and daughter had received the news 
of the death of the father of the rough little girl; “ May 
I cry,” said the rough little girl with a shake in her 
voice, “ upstairs? ” and when her mother, with her teeth 
on her lip and a speck of blood there, nodded, away like 
a flash sped the rough little girl and like a flash up halls 
and corridors and stairs (four good minutes, so vast 
the castle is, it took her), but never burst in all that time, 
but terribly did when soon her mother came to her and 
found her face down on her bed. “ My Daddy! My 
Daddy! ” sobbed the rough little girl. “ My darling, 
he was a Chilperine,” her mother said, “ and he would 
have us remember, oh Brenda, Brenda, that you and 

I-” But “ My Daddy, my Daddy! ” was all the 

rough little girl could bring to that. 

Dry-eyed, out of their hand-clasp terrible indeed, so 
that the weals were on the fingers of the rough little girl 
an hour after, they had stood as they came out of church 
one Sunday and looked from face to face of all the 
whispering, glancing knots that stood about the door. 
“What is it, Jason?” the mother of the rough little 
girl had said to one. “ Lady,” said old Jason, “ God 
comfort ’ee, ’tis Master Hugo gone.” Very straight 
stood the mother of the rough little girl and looked 



88 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


upon the faces that sadly looked at her. “ He was a 
Chilperine,” she said. Very heavey was the rough little 
girl seen by the beholders to be, heavey in the chest and 
heavey at the throat, as though something swelled and 
pressed for exit within her, but very straight with her 
mother she walked down between the heads all bared 
and bowed, and all she ever said to be heard was said 
to Martin the footman, who had not got open the door 
of the car when they arrived at the gate. 

“ Quick! Quick! ” said the rough little girl. 

So, because they were Chilperines, on neither of 
those two terrible occasions was either of them seen 
by any one to cry; but when came that terrific day on 
which, hand in hand, they came down the steps for the 
last time, then were seen tears in Chilperine eyes, and, 
by some (it is told to this day in the Chilperine Arms) 
was seen other emotion and another emblem of emotion 
such as never before in all the long generations of the 
Chilperines mortal eye had beheld. 

This emblem of emotion was the long, bright red 
tongue of the rough little girl. 

By misfortune, or by characteristic gaucherie of 
the manufacturer of Porky Puffs, the car of Mr. Pook, 
arriving, passed at the lodge gates the car of the Chil¬ 
perines departing. Gloom was in the Porky Puff car. 
Mr. Pook, driving through the village, had seen in the 
scowls and in the deliberately turned backs of the vil¬ 
lagers the manner of social relations that were likely 
to be his, and his soul was bitter within him. Tears 
were in the Chilperine car. The rough little girl had 
been since daybreak through the agonies of farewell, 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 89 

and through the agonies yet more sharp of imagining 
the vile Pook amongst her treasures and her darling 
playthings of stable and of garden, and her heart was 
broken and savage within her. The cars met. They 
had to slow to pass. The rough little girl saw the 
smooth little girl and the coarse and abominable father 
of the smooth little girl. She levelled a baleful eye upon 
the father of the smooth little girl. She pulled at him 
a face truly diabolical in its contempt and malignity, 
and out of this face she projected at him as far as it 
would go what appeared to be quite seven inches of 
bright red tongue. 

She was rough. 

Quickness of decision and ruthlessness of nice feel¬ 
ing had very largely contributed to make Mr. Pook 
the financial colossus that he had become. They helped 
him now. Entirely unprepared for this horrible out¬ 
rage that suddenly confronted him, he, nevertheless, 
and despite he was fifty-eight years of age, immedi¬ 
ately countered it. At the bright red Chilperine tongue 
he thrust out, as far as he could thrust it, a dull, blueish 
Pook tongue. 

Thus, tongues at full extension, met for the first time, 
and passed, Chilperine and Pook. 

Aghast at conduct in her daughter so unspeakably 
gross (rough though she knew her to be) the mother 
of the rough little girl at last found words. “ Darling! 
In all my life I never could have imagined-” 

“ Cherishable, I had to,” said the rough little girl. 

“ Your roughness, daring-” 

“ Cherishable, I simply had to.” 




90 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


“ Rougher and rougher you seem to get. Darling, 
it really pains me.” 

“ He did it too.” 

“ You are a Chilperine.” 

“ But I did it first.” 

“ More utter, utter shame to you.” 

“ All the same I’m glad I was first,” said the rough 
little girl, and added “ Toads! ” 

Her mother sighed. 

The rough little girl at that, as was her habit, 
snuggled against her mother and said, “ Oh, Cherish- 
able, I know I am rough. Still — ” and beneath her 
breath muttered again “ Toads! ” 

The story now leaps on about two months, and finds 
the rough little girl back at the school whereat she was 
a boarder and wherein she was the roughest little girl 
that so swagger and exclusive a school had ever known. 
Her intolerant and her impetuous spirit caused her to 
be a bully and a hectorer of all of her own years, and 
by all except her chosen intimates she was indeed much 
disliked. She had a sharp tongue and a rough hand, 
and they were afraid of her. Nevertheless (or should 
it be therefore?) she occupied a very prominent position 
in the school; on the splendid occasions when parents 
visited the school for celebrative functions there was no 
companion one and all were more eager to introduce 
to their parents, and, because she was who she was, no 
child whom the mothers were more interested to meet, 
than “ the little Chilperine girl.” 

Well, the story, rushing on, finds the little Chilperine 
girl engaged, not in hectoring her companions or in 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 91 

meeting their mothers, but in writing, in highest heat, 
to her own mother : 

“ Cherishable, what do you think? The most ex- 
trordinry and atrochus thing has happened. At half- 
term, which is the day after to-morrow, who ever do 
you think is coming to this school ? The Pook girl!!! 
The little girl of that lothsome Pook creature who 
turned us out of darling, beloved Chilperine!!! Oh, 
Cherishable, can you imagine it? That frightful sick¬ 
faced child we saw in that ghastly yellow car that day 
when I put out my tongue at her, not content with lord¬ 
ing it over every inch of my angel Chilperine, is coming 
to pursue me here in my very school, the retch and 
tode!! Well, Cherishable, you can depend on me to 
have my revenge on her and make her life a bur don to 
her. I’ve told all the girls who she is and of course 
they all know, as everybody knows, what that horrible 
Pook, her father, has done to us. You know, don’t 
you, that not one of the families around dear Chilperine 
will have anything to do with him and I daresay he’s 
sent his sick faced child to school to get her out of what 
he must be feeling. Well, he’ll jolly soon find out what 
he’s done for her. I’ll make her life a burdon to her 
as sure as her name’s the hideous and repulsive name 
it is — Pook. The day after to-morrow! I only wish 
it was to-morrow. We’re all ready for her — especially 
me! ” 

That was the letter the rough little girl wrote and 
this was the reply the rough little girl received. It 
was a telegram. It went flying back to her the very 
minute her mother read her letter, and for a woman 
who had set herself to practise rigid economy, it must 
have been one of the most extravagant telegrams ever 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


92 

written. Mrs. Chilperine, in order that her daughter 
should make no mistake about it, even paid to have it 
punctuated: 

“ Oh, darling, whatever can you be thinking of to 
speak of taking your revenge? You are a Chilperine. 
No Chilperine ever takes revenge. Just think of that 
poor, frightened little mite coming amongst all you girls 
and you planning to make her poor little life a burden 
to her! Darling, you are a Chilperine, and you must 
make her life a joy to her, poor little thing. Now lis¬ 
ten, darling. You are to be her friend and protector 
and to cherish her in every way. I am wiring Miss 
Philpotts to let the poor thing share your room, which 
I am sure can be arranged, as Nora Blossom has had 
to go home and you have your room alone. So do this, 
darling, because you are a Chilperine and Chilperines 
must; and never, never have thoughts like that again. 
Heaps of kisses, darling.” 


II 

“ You are Lily Pook,” said the rough little girl to 
the smooth little girl. “ I am Brenda Chilperine and I 
am going to be kind to you and cherish you. Don’t 
speak. This is my room and you are going to share 
it and we shall call it our room and you can use every¬ 
thing in it that is mine except my dagger paperknife 
with the gold handle because it is the last thing I took 
out of Chilperine. Oh, well. I suppose you must. Yes, 
you can use that too. Don’t speak. If any girl here 
ever teases you, or if you are ever unhappy, you are 
to tell me at once, and I will make it all right for you 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 93 

because I am going to make your life a joy to you. 
Don’t speak. You may call me Brenda, and you may 
show me all your letters and I will show you all mine. 
There’s just one thing I am not going to do and will not 
do. I will not and shall not call you Lily. There’s a 
barrier between us because you have turned me out of 
my beloved Chilperine and gone to live there yourself. 
No living soul in this school will know or suspect that 
there is a barrier between us because I’m going to 
cherish you till I’m black in the face. But you know 
and I know it, and what I’m going to call you is a 
private sign between us and a memorial unto us that 
there is a barrier. I’m not going to call you Lily; I’m 
going to call you Pook. Every time you hear me call 
you Pook, even if it’s in the middle of doing an utmost 
kindness to you, you will remember the barrier. Don’t 
speak. Every girl here will call you Pook because they 
will hear me calling you Pook. They won’t know that 
it’s a memorial between us but we shall know, and 
whenever a girl calls you Pook our eyes will meet and 
we shall know our private barrier. I say, ” said the 
rough little girl in a new voice, “ that will be rather fun, 
won’t it, to have our eyes meet like that just like they 
do in books ? Sometimes I shall be perhaps right at the 
end of a long room and yet right across the room our 
eyes will meet and our souls commune. Eh? ” 

“How will you hear?” said the smooth little girl 
doubtfully. 

“ Stupid! ” cried the rough little girl, “ if I don’t 
hear, it can’t be done, can it? If you’re going to ask 
nonsensical questions like that, it’s going to be harder 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


94 

than ever for me to cherish you. All the same ” (and 
her voice changed again), “ it might sometimes be hard 
to hear and other sometimes one of us might forget. 
What will have to be done is for the other one then to 
snap her fingers very loudly like that,” and snap with 
her finger and thumb went the rough little girl with a 
crack like a whip (she had bony fingers through much 
hockey, lawn tennis and cricket). “ Snap yours.” 

The snap made by the smooth little girl was not at 
all approved by the rough little girl (it could indeed 
only be written by the ridiculous sound “ pluff ”). 
“ Your finger and thumb,” said the rough little girl, 
“ are simply podge ”; and was told apologetically, 
“ They’re very hot and slippery ”; and replied, “ Wipe 
them then, you stupid old thing! I must say a more 
frightened looking child. I’ve never seen. Are you 
always frightened like this?” 

“ I’m rather strange here, please,” said the smooth 
little girl. 

“ Don’t say 4 please ’ like that,” said the rough little 
girl. “ Now come with me and I’ll show you the 
other girls in my form, and we’ll do this secret-sign 
business. Wipe your finger and thumb on your hand¬ 
kerchief.” 

At this hour the girls of the rough little girl’s form 
were in their rooms (every girl at this most swagger 
and exclusive school sharing with another the sweetest 
little study-bedroom you ever saw) and at the first 
study was performed the performance repeated in all 
the other studies. “ Hilda and Mary,” said the rough 
little girl, entering the first, “ this is my new and great 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 95 

friend. I told you I was going to make her life a bur¬ 
den to her but I also told you afterwards I was not, 
but that I was going to cherish her. If you’re not 
kindness itself to her, you’d better look out for your¬ 
self, that’s all. Her name is Pook. Lily’s her ordinary 
name, but Pook is what she’s got to be called. Take 
her over to the far end and call her Pook.” 

Hilda and Mary, much obedient to the rough little 
girl, as were all the girls of her age, took the smooth 
little girl aside as bade, and looked at her silently and 
with embarrassment. 

“ Go on! ” cried the rough little girl, “ Pook her, 
can’t you! ” 

“ Pook,” said Mary. 

“ Idiot! ” cried the rough little girl. “ Say some¬ 
thing to her, can’t you? ” 

“ How do you do, Pook,” said Hilda. 

“ Quite well, thank you,” said the smooth little girl. 

“ My back is turned! My back is turned! ” cried the 
rough little girl. “ I can’t hear what’s going on. Sig¬ 
nal, can’t you ? ” 

Pluff went the hot and damp fingers of the smooth 
little girl. 

“Tchk!” very vexedly and impatiently went the 
tongue of the rough little girl. “ Louder! ” 

Pluff. 

“ Much louder. Twice.” 

Pluff, pluff. 

Very slowly and dramatically the rough little girl 
turned, folded her arms, and bending her head forward 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


96 

above them directed upon the smooth little girl a gaze 
of truly terrifying intensity. 

Recovering, “ That’s a sign of the deadly secret be¬ 
tween us,” she explained to the astonished Mary and 
Hilda. “ Come now, Pook; and do for goodness’ sake 
wipe those horrible fingers of yours.” 

That night when they were got to bed in the two 
little beds that stood side by side, “ There’s one ques¬ 
tion I should like to ask you,” said the rough little girl. 
“ Have you ever seen me before to-day? ” 

“ Yes, I have,” said the smooth little girl. “ Why 
did you put your tongue out at us ? ” 

“ Because my tongue’s my own and I can slide it in 
and out without asking you ” said the rough little girl. 
“ Your father put out his tongue at me, which was far 
worse, and I may as well tell you at once that a more 
hideous tongue I never saw. I suppose he lives on 
porky puffs. What I was going to say to you is : Have 
I made your life a joy to you to-day? ” 

“ You have been very, very kind to me,” most ear¬ 
nestly replied the smooth little girl. “ I was dreading 
coming here but you have been kindness itself to me, 
Brenda.” 

“ That’s what I’ve got to be,” returned the rough 
little girl, “ because I am a Chilperine; and if it made 
you unhappy my sticking my tongue out at you, I 
hereby withdraw my tongue. Talking about porky 
puffs, have you by any chance brought any with you? ” 
“ I’ve got one packet of six in my box.” 

“ Princess porky puffs or Party porky puffs ? ” 

“ Party, Brenda.” 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 97 

“ Well, it was very wrong of you,” said the rough 
little girl very sternly. “ It’s utterly forbidden to bring 
grub to school and if you’re found out to-morrow you 
will be in disgrace. I’ve got to shield you in every way 
and it seems to me that the only way to shield you in 
this is for us to eat them now before they’re discovered. 
Get them, Pook.” 

The smooth little girl got them. 

“ Three for you and three for me,” said the rough 
little girl, dividing the packet. “ You may think,” she 
added as they sat up in bed munching, “ that I’m en¬ 
joying these. As a matter of fact, so much as to touch 
a porky puff is to me to eat of the bread of affliction.” 
She munched the bread of affliction with capable jaws. 
“ All the same, I frankly admit they’re very good. If 
you don’t want that last one of yours I’ll have it for 
you. Now go to sleep and don’t speak another word. 
This has been a very trying day for me and I can per¬ 
fectly well see you are going to try me very much; 
even apart from the fact that I have a mortal grudge 
against you, which I have to quell because I am a 
Chilperine, I think you are in many ways the most 
stupid child I have ever met. Good night, Pook.” 

Thus was begun for the smooth little girl a tutelage 
at once stern and affectionate, harsh and devoted. 
Brenda unquestionably bullied Lily, but as unquestion¬ 
ably bullied her always for her own good. She never 
spoke to her a word that any one overhearing possibly 
could call a kind word; but all her sharp and apparently 
unfeeling admonitions were towards helping Lily to 
hold her own, and it was woe betide any girl other than 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


98 

Brenda’s self who dared make unhappy the daughter of 
Mr. Pook. The rough little girl cherished the smooth 
little girl, and the day came when Mr. Pook thanked 
her and was himself cherished. 

Ill 

“If you can’t hold your own, I must make you hold 
your own,” was the rough little girl’s most constant 
cry; and there came a day when it was extended to 
include the father of the smooth little girl also. “If 
your father,” said the rough little girl in her impatient 
way, “ is coming down to Speech Day, he’s coming 
down to Speech Day. And if I say he never will hold 
his own here, he never will hold his own here. Have 
you ever known me wrong in anything I’ve told you? ” 

“ Never,” said the smooth little girl. 

“ Very well, then. My mother can’t come and even 
if she could come I should have to be lugging you about 
all day, for a more shy or stupid child I have never seen 
or imagined. I’ve got to cherish you and I suppose 
that means I’ve got to cherish your frightful father as 
well.” 

“ Brenda,” said the smooth little girl timidly, “ he’s 
not frightful.” 

“ He’s got a frightful tongue,” said Brenda, “be¬ 
cause I’ve seen it, as you perfectly well know.” 

The smooth little girl rather painfully coloured. “ He 
was very upset that day because the people of the village 
had been rude to him. Every one at Chilperine still is 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 99 

very rude to him, and he says he knows all the parents 
here at Speech Day will be rude to him.” 

“Not if I cherish him,” said Brenda — “.unless of 
course he puts out his tongue at them.” 

“ He won’t. My darling father wouldn’t really be 
unkind to a soul. He says he will be equal with all 
these people one day. He says he’ll be a lord before he’s 
finished, Brenda.” 

The rough little girl gave a snort down her rough 
little nose. “ Perhaps he says he’ll be the man in the 
moon some day? ” 

“ I’ve never heard him say so,” said the smooth little 
girl. 

“ You know, the simple fact about you,” said Brenda, 
“ is that you’re a born idiot.” 

“ Yes, Brenda,” said the smooth little girl. 

Nevertheless it was not treatment such as is normally 
awarded to a born idiot that the smooth little girl had 
in her daily letters reported to her father. On the con¬ 
trary, it was treatment that seemed to have filled her 
with an ecstatic devotion. 

“ You’ve been uncommon good to my little lass,” 
said Mr. Pook on his arrival, “and I’m uncommon 
grateful to you; especially,” added Mr. Pook, with a 
shade of embarrassment, “ seeing as what passed be¬ 
tween us the first time we met.” 

“ Tongues,” said the rough little girl. 

“ Something like that,” said Mr. Pook. 

“ All it is,” said the rough little girl, “ is that I’ve 
had to cherish Pook because I am a Chilperine, and to- 


IOO 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


day I have got to cherish you. I daresay you are feeling 
rather nervous, aren’t you? ” 

“ To tell you the honest truth,” admitted Mr. Pook, 
“ I am; though why,” and his voice became slightly de¬ 
fiant, “ I should be, I don’t know.” 

The rough little girl looked him up and down ap¬ 
praisingly. “ I should say it’s those frightful boots 
you’ve got on,” she reported. 

Mr. Pook had arrived in a terrific car. He had been 
met by the little girls smooth and rough at a point 
where a path across the grounds of the swagger and 
exclusive school met the main road, and he had dis¬ 
closed himself on alighting from the car wearing a 
striped blue suit that struck one as neat, but white 
buckskin boots that struck one as gaudy. 

“ What’s the matter with the boots ? ” inquired Mr. 
Pook, staring down upon them. 

“ They’re white,” said the rough little girl. 

“ Fine and white too,” responded Mr. Pook. 
“ Didn’t you tell my little lass this was to be an outdoor 
garden party affair and to come dressed according?” 

“ I didn’t tell her it was to be a yachting affair,” said 
the rough little girl. “ Those boots, with that suit, 
would be all right on a yacht. At this Speech Day to¬ 
day they’ll simply make you a figure of shame.” 

Mr. Pook sat down on the step of the car and re¬ 
garded his cherisher gloomily. “ Well, that’s a good 
start, isn’t it?” said Mr. Pook. 

“ It’s a horrible start,” corrected the rough little girl. 
“If I’ve got to cherish you to-day, you’ve got to — ” 
she frowned for a word. 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL ioi 

“ Cherish myself,” suggested Mr. Pook. 

“ Exactly,” said the rough little girl, “ and how 
you’re going to cherish yourself in those boots, I can’t 
see or imagine.” 

She said this so gravely and so determinedly that 
Mr. Pook, already nervous of his reception at the 
swagger and exclusive school, already impressed both 
by his daughter’s letters and by this personal contact — 
by the obvious savoir faire of the rough little girl — 
stared at her as one arrived at a crisis in life’s prob¬ 
lems. “ Can’t walk about in my socks all day, can I ? ” 
he debated. 

“ You can't ” said the rough little girl. 

Despair was blown in an enormous gust from be¬ 
tween the distended cheeks of Mr. Pook. “ Seems to 
me I’d best go back,” said he. 

“ Certainly not said the rough little girl. “ If I’ve 
got to cherish you, cherished you’ve got to be; never 
mind what happens. Just keep perfectly quiet, if you 
don’t mind, while I think.” 

She stood with brows corrugated as beneath stu¬ 
pendous tension of thought, and she was watched, as 
she stood, with awe and with a great hush by Mr. Pook, 
by Lily Pook, and by the chauffeur of Mr. Pook. 

“ There’s your chauffeur’s boots,” said the rough 
little girl. 

The chauffeur, obsequious, brightened. 

“ They’re worse,” said the rough little girl. 

The chauffeur, crushed, reddened. 

“ A bit yellow,” said Mr. Pook, in the voice of one 


102 THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 

who felt he must say something. “ A bit yellow for 
this suit.” 

“ Too yellow,” said the rough little girl. She darted 
a sudden questioning arm towards Mr. Pook. “ Just 
tell me this, Would you consider it an extravagance to 
buy a new pair of boots ? ” 

“ It would need a bigger thing than a pair of boots 
for me to call extravagant,” said Mr. Pook, and he 
spoke the words with a smile slightly grim. 

“ Well, you’ll want a pretty big pair,” said the rough 
little girl. “If you ask me, your feet are simply 
enormous.” 

The smile left the face of Mr. Pook. He said so¬ 
berly, “ I can afford it.” 

“ Then that’s what we’ll do,” said the rough little 
girl brightly. “ There’s a shop in the town and we’ll 
do it at once.” 

They drove to the town and they entered the shop. 
“ Can you afford patent leather? ” said the rough little 
girl. 

“ I think I can,” said Mr. Pook. 

“ Then you can have patent leather,” said the rough 
little girl. 

“ Thank you,” said Mr. Pook. 

“ This gentleman,” said the rough little girl to the 
shop assistant, “ would like a pair of patent leather 
boots, not too dear and not pointed.” 

The assistant stripped off the impossible white boot 
from one foot of Mr. Pook and measured the foot. 

“ And see,” said the rough little girl, “ that you give 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 103 

him a nice roomy fit, because he’s got to wear them to 
walk all day in.” 

“ Certainly, miss,” said the assistant. 

A pair of boots approved by the rough little girl were 
placed upon the feet of Mr. Pook, and there followed 
an afternoon in which Mr. Pook trod painfully, but 
with feelings very novel to him and very agreeable to 
him, in the wake of the rough little girl. He trod 
painfully because the boots, though roomy, proved, as 
new patent leather will, not to be roomy enough. His 
feelings were novel and were very agreeable, because 
for the first time in his life he found himself received, 
nay made to feel at home, by a class of society which 
hitherto he had at once envied and loathed. 

The rough little girl, as firmly cherishing Mr. Pook 
among the swagger and exclusive parents as she had 
cherished Lily Pook among the swagger and exclusive 
girls, took the great Colossus of porky puffs from 
group to group scattered about the garden, introduced 
him, set him down in the heart of each group, im¬ 
mersed him and piloted him in that group’s conversa¬ 
tion, and at the proper interval of time collected him 
from that group and conducted him to similar ameni¬ 
ties in another group. 

“ This is Mr. Pook,” was the rough little girl’s for¬ 
mula. “ He is the father of my greatest friend, Lily 
Pook. This is Lily Pook. And he lives at Chilperine 
Castle, where we used to live. Sit down, Mr. Pook.” 
And there were joined to this formula high-sounding 
names and highly distinguished titles belonging to the 
other parties to the introduction that caused Mr. Pook 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


104 

to sit down with the sense of sitting in the seats of 
the mighty and with the gratification thereof. As to 
the owners of these names and these titles, whether 
it was that they were tickled, or whether it was that 
they were touched, by the cherishment of Mr. Pook 
by the rough little girl, unquestionably they showed to 
Mr. Pook that hearts just as kind and rare beat all 
about Mayfair as in the lowly air of porky puff palaces. 
They welcomed Mr. Pook and what is more, getting 
in conversation with him, they enjoyed Mr. Pook and 
liked Mr. Pook. “ Have you met,” they said to one 
another, “ that Mr. Pook with that too comic Brenda 
Chilperine? He’s delicious. He really is delightful.” 

It was a thrilled Mr. Pook, but it was also a pro¬ 
foundly touched Mr. Pook, that as evening fell stood 
beside the terrific car in process of taking leave of 
the rough little girl. Having thanked her, not effusively, 
for some instinct told him effusive thanks, like white 
boots, were not acceptable to the rough little girl’s 
idea of cherishment, “ I suppose,” said he, embarrassed, 
“ I couldn’t give you a little tip, like as I’m going to 
give my Lily ? ” 

“ It would depend,” said the rough little girl 
frankly, “ on how much it was.” 

Mr. Pook was taken aback. “ Would five pounds,” 
said he nervously, “ be all right? ” 

“ Five pounds,” said the rough little girl in her im¬ 
patient way, “ would be perfectly ridiculous. If you 
like to give me five shillings I think it would be very 
kind of you, and I will write you a letter to thank you.” 

“ There is no occasion,” said Mr. Pook, “ to do that.” 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 105 

He handed her two half-crowns. “ There’s only one 
way for me to say the amount of things I’d like to say, 
and that is that you’re a real little lady, a real one. What 
was it you said when we met you were going to do to 
me, same as you said you had done to Lily ? ” 

“ Cherish you,” said the rough little girl. 

“ You have,” said Mr. Pook emphatically. “ Do 
you mind telling me — it’s been rather a job, hasn’t it, 
rather a bit of work, all that cherishing this after¬ 
noon ? ” 

“ At the beginning,” replied the rough little girl, 
“ it was rather a strain.” 

“ I reckon,” said Mr. Pook. 

“ You needn’t mind,” said the rough little girl. I 
didn’t do it because I wanted to do it. I did it because 
I had to do it. I’ve got to cherish Lily, and I supposed 
I had to cherish you, because I’m a Chilperine.” 

Mr. Pook stared upon the rough little girl medita¬ 
tively. “ I daresay,” said he, “ it’s not all jam being 
a Chilperine.” 

“ I daresay,” said the rough little girl, “ it’s not all 
porky puff being a Pook.” 

“ You’re right,” said Mr. Pook. 

IV 

The story now takes a turn, at once hackneyed and 
sentimental, which I detest and something like which 
I have been dreading all the time. If only I could 
invent stories for myself instead of telling other 
people’s, I never would stoop to the smell of smoke and 


106 THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 

the clanging of a great bell to which the rough little 
girl one night awoke. Of course you guess at once 
what has happened and what is going to happen. The 
swagger and exclusive school was on fire. Brenda 
skipped out of bed, stuffed on her shoes, jerked up her 
wrapper and simply rushed. She gave never a thought 
to Lily Pook. She never imagined this was a real fire. 
At least twice in every term that bell used to startle the 
swagger and exclusive girls out of their sleep and send 
them hustling to their established places in the great 
hall in the delirious excitement of fire drill. There were 
prizes for the girls who got there in three minutes from 
the alarm, and punishment (forfeits) for the girls who 
did not get there in five. Hence never a thought of 
Lily Pook, only the skipping out, the stuffing on, the 
jerking up and the rushing down. True, a smell of 
smoke had never before been present with the alarm 
bell, but in the excitement to be down among the prize¬ 
winners Brenda scarcely noticed it. 

She noticed it very dreadfully as in the mob of others 
she fled downstairs and into the hall. Also horrible 
crackling noises; also strange heat; also no stopping in 
the hall! Mistresses were there to shout, “ In the gar¬ 
den ! In the garden! Take your places on the lawn! ” 
and they were all in their places, much agitated, hys¬ 
terically squeaking as to some of them, hysterically 
exclaiming as to nearly all at the horrid sight of red 
and yellow light glowing angrily behind the window 
panes, before ever to Brenda came the thought of Lily. 
Indeed, it only came when simultaneously it came to 
all the rest of that frightened throng. 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 107 

The first rule in the principles of that fire drill was 
the taking of a roll call. A mistress well accustomed 
to the list, comporting herself with superb calm in this 
terrible crisis, rattled off the names. The swagger and 
exclusive girls, well accustomed to the order of their 
names, and comporting themselves now with automatic 
precision, rattled out responses. One name (its owner 
recently joined) was pencilled at the foot of the list. 
One girl, for the like reason, never yet had participated 
in a fire drill; knew not the meaning of the great bell; 
did not respond when at last her name was called. 

“ Lily Pook! ” cried the mistress, and stopped; and 
there seemed to be in all that din a dreadful silence. 
“ Lily Pook! ” she cried again; and there came a cold 
clutch to the heart of Brenda; and now indeed was 
panic. “ Where is Lily Pook ? ” cried the mistress. 
“ Has any one seen Lily Pook ? ” And using the smooth 
little girl’s funny little name “ Pook! Pook! ” cried 
all the swagger and exclusive misses. “ Pook! Pook! 
Pook!” 

I ought to have said (but you have doubtless guessed 
it) that, as always happens in stories of this kind, the 
nearest fire engine was miles and miles away. No men 
were attached to this swagger and exclusive school. 
Men, indeed, were firmly kept away from it. The very 
gardeners were lady gardeners; the lady principal’s 
chauffeur was a lady chauffeur; and now, while men 
for the first time in the history of that swagger and 
exclusive school were very badly wanted, and while still 
that frightened throng wailed “ Pook! Pook! ” into 
the night; their wails suddenly were changed to screams 


io8 THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 

of “ Brenda! Brenda! ” also of “ Stop her! Stop 
her! ” 

Again you can guess. It always happens in stories 
of this kind. There came to the rough little girl the 
dreadful knowledge that here, in the absence of that 
Pook, her trust was betrayed. The Pook whom it was 
her duty, because she was a Chilperine, to cherish, was 
not being cherished. She was, on the contrary, being 
burnt alive. 

A Pilgrim Knight, that is to say a Chilperine, can¬ 
not stand by and see that happen. 

As countless heroines have done before, but much 
more fearfully, because, although she was a Chilperine, 
she was not really a heroine, the rough little girl fled 
across the lawn and into the great hall and up the stairs 
and down the corridors and into the room jointly 
shared. She went by no means so swiftly as this is 
written. In some stages she went very slowly. Once, 
when half-way up the stairs, she went back. She was 
very frightened, and she had occasion to be very fright¬ 
ened. There was smoke and there were flames and 
there was very great heat and there was a most terrible 
rending and crackling. 

“I am the Pilgrim Knight.” 

It is not the kind of thing that a little girl would say 
or think, horribly situated as was this little girl, but I 
have to state and to emphasise that she did say it. She 
went back once in the great hall; and she said, “ I am 
the Pilgrim Knight! ” and she went on again. She 
went back once on the first landing; and she said, “ I 
am the Pilgrim Knight,” and she went on again. She 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 109 

went back once on the second 'flight of stairs; and she 
saw, not in the direction on which she had turned her 
back, but in the direction towards which now stood her 
face, that which most terribly dismayed her. In the 
brief instant since her passage of the flight below, 
flames had appeared where flames had not been. They 
were leaping up and they leapt, from the landing to 
the stairs, with a horrible fluttering sound, like a flag 
drumming in a great wind. 

That was what beneath her the rough little girl saw; 
and it was perfectly clear to her that, if those stairs 
were to be descended and safety reached, they must be 
descended now, at once, with all possible speed, or 
never. 

She nerved herself for that terrible rush to lovely 
safety; and at the pitch of her nerving, that is to say 
on her tiptoes, with her breath held up to bursting, 
with “one hand stretched down the balustrade, with the 
other frantically caught to her small bosom, she re¬ 
membered a thing that her people had been saying ever 
since the first Chilperine said it to William the Con¬ 
queror; and tears of fright rushed to her eyes and 
streamed out of her eyes and she said it. 

“ I am the Pilgrim Knight! ” she said; and she 
turned and took those stairs again. 

She kept repeating it now. She had to. “ I am the 
Pilgrim Knight! I am the Pilgrim Knight! I am the 
Pilgrim Knight! ” She said it over and over again, 
very fast and very fierce. She had to; she would have 
gone back else. 


IIO 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


Well, that is the easiest bit of that part, and the rest 
has to be hurried over because it is rather painful. 

The rough little girl found the smooth little girl 
cowering beside the window of her room. The smooth 
little girl cried, “Oh, Brenda! Brenda!” The rough) 
little girl, recovering at sight of the smooth little girl 
something of her normal attitude towards her, cried 
“ Oh, Pook! I must say you are the most maddening 
and infuriating and senseless Pook! Whatever on earth 
did you stay up here for ? ” 

She caught the smooth little girl by the hand and 
dragged her (she had to be dragged) to the head of 
the stairs. 

But beyond the first flight there were no stairs; there 
were only flames. 

“ Now, you see,” cried the rough little girl, “ what 
you have done! Pook, you ought to be boiled 

As the smooth little girl was in more than consider¬ 
able danger of being within a very few minutes burnt, 
this was no very alarming threat; and there came almost 
immediately new terrors very terrible, which lost the 
rough little girl the confidence that came to her by re¬ 
sumption of her bullying and hectoring ways. There 
came up the well of the staircase a sudden giant flame 
that leapt like a spontaneous combustion of the air 
about them. They staggered back and Lily screamed. 

“ We are going to die! We are going to die! ” she 
cried, and clutched both her arms around the other. 

The rough little girl kissed her. “ Darling Pook,” 
she said, “ we are not. Darling Pook, you have only 
got to be brave.” 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL in 

There was a short passage here and the rough little 
girl took the smooth little girl to the window at the 
end of it. At the end of the long corridor on this land¬ 
ing was a fire escape. At the end of this passage there 
was no fire escape and the corridor could not be reached. 

The rough little girl threw up the lower sash of the 
window. It very fortunately gave on to the lawn where 
had assembled the girls. They were to be seen now, 
from that great height, as midgets performing as it 
were antics. The school fire brigade had found their 
senses and their implements. With a hand pump and 
a hose they were directing what looked to be a thin 
pencil of water against the buildings. Other girls — 
the roll-call ranks, under strain of Brenda’s dramatic 
'flight, abandoned — ran excitedly to and fro, stopping 
at useful points to search the windows; others in groups 
stood rooted, staring. 

Brenda showed herself. The puppets, as though 
jerked by simultaneous movement of every string, 
whirled into agitation of tossing arms and running 
feet. They collected in a crowd. There came up thin 
wisps of voices piping “ Brenda! Brenda! ” The 
smooth little girl was seen. “ Pook! Pook! ” arose the 
piping notes. 

It was told afterwards by a mistress: “ We knew 
they were cut off from the fire escape on their landing, 
for we had seen flames from the window where it was 
fastened. We were distracted. That brave child, in 
her dreadful peril, had more sense than we. She re¬ 
membered what in our distraction we forgot, the jump¬ 
ing sheet that was supplied with our fire-brigade equip- 


112 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


ment and that at our fire drill we used to hold for girls 
of the gym eight to jump into from the first floor; quite 
low, you know. Brenda could not make us hear. She 
got out on the window sill and that, because we were 
terrified she was going to throw herself down, reminded 
us. What courage, what coolness of thought by such 
means to remind us! We fled for the sheet, and every 
one for whom there was room hung on it with their 
full weight as at our drill we had learnt. And 
then — ” 

The sheet looked to Brenda not so small as a large 
pocket handkerchief, but not so big as a small table¬ 
cloth. Brenda felt sick. She glanced back along the 
passage. 

It would be an exaggeration to say that what Brenda 
saw along the passage informed her that not minutes 
but only seconds remained for life up there. Minutes 
remained, but they were in number very, very few. 
Brenda said, “ Darling Pook, you must jump.” 

Lily most dreadfully shrieked, “ Brenda, I can’t, I 
can’t!” 

The rough little girl said, “ Darling Pook! ” and be¬ 
gan to lift her. 

The smooth little girl screamed, “ Brenda! Brenda! ” 
and at that her smooth little knees collapsed. 

She was fainted. 

The rough little girl tried to raise her and found, 
because she was very hurried and very terrified, that 
she could not raise her. She leaned from the window 
and thereupon the lawn screamed to her “Jump! 
Jump! ” 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 113 

She put a leg over the window sill and again looked 
down, and they screamed more loudly than before 
“ Jump! Jump! ” She drew up the other leg and be¬ 
gan, very quickly, to thrust it over; and she looked 
back and looked down at the smooth little girl, 
crumpled; and she did not say it herself, but it was said 
for her into her by the spirit that stretched back to the 
first Chilperine and that frequently, at moments like 
this, found a voice for itself, much disturbing the living 
stuff. It was said for her into her “ You are a Chil- 
perine.” 

So she caught at her breath and she drew back her 
legs and she was not seen by those who from the lawn 
screamed, “ Jump, Brenda, jump! ” 

There immediately was seen by them instead the 
form of the smooth little girl, which first was on the 
window ledge, and then between the arms of the rough 
little girl was suspended above the sheet, and then came 
whizzing, and miraculously was caught upon the sheet, 
and bounced, but not much, and was caught again, and 
was deposited, unhurt, upon the lawn. 

You know, it’s confusion when you are swagger and 
exclusive girls, and not trained firemen, holding a 
jumping sheet, and a body comes thudding into it. You 
can’t be ready again at once, you know. 

There was confusion; and while that confusion, as 
they say, “ reigned,” there was a mighty crash and a 
bursting up to heaven of sparks that flames, as if they 
chased them, clutched at with angry fingers; and that 
was part, not all, of the roof gone in; and there were 
shouts, and men, and rushings, and that was the fire 


THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 


114 

brigade arrived and running a snake of ladders to the 
house; and there was every eye towards one point, and 
every heart in dread towards it, and that was where 
the little girl that was rough had been . . . and was 
not. 

Up went that snake of ladders and up the first, pit-a- 
pat! my goodness, how he goes! a giant fellow with a 
shining hat; and up the next, and flick! another is shot 
up before him; and he’s up that, and flick! he’s up 
again. Pit-a-pat! my word, his feet and hands aren’t 
feet and hands, they’re four spots racing. Up, up; up, 
up; my life, that man’s a sailor! He’s up. His hands 
are at the window. Up goes his leg. He’s gone. My 
stars, he hadn’t touched the top before he — flick — 
was vanished; before he — Look ! Print it in shouts, 
before he — Look! He’s Got Her! On His Shoul¬ 
der! Cheer! He’s Out! He’s Coming Down! 
Cheer ! Cheer, Girls, Cheer Again ! Here, let me 
out, I’ve got something in my eyes, confound it! 

(I say, that’s the way to tell a story!) 

V 

The rough little girl passed through a number of 
scenes and among a number of faces very decidedly 
bewildering to her. The first face upon which she 
squarely got her eye was, astoundingly, the large, red 
face, gazing upon her from the foot of the bed, of Mr. 
Pook. The next face, standing beside her, was the 
face of Lily Pook; and the first scene, enframing these 
faces, clearly observed by the rough little girl was, 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 115 

amazingly, the very dear and familiar scene of her own 
bedroom at Chilperine Castle. She then, with effect 
much more stabilizing, perceived on the other side of 
her, smiling at her, the face of her mother. 

In every story of this kind that I have ever read, 
the first words of the rough little girl would have been, 
“ Is Pook safe?” A beatific smile would then have 
adorned her face. She then would have said she heard 
the sound of angels’ music; and then, very beautifully, 
would have died. I hate to write that her first words 
were, instead, quite calmly, “ Cherishable, is this my 
room at Chilperine? ” She then said, “ How lovely! ” 
and she then incontinently went to sleep. 

What had happened was that Mr. Pook, hearing by 
telephone of the disaster, had rushed over to the school 
in his terrific car; and hearing there of his daughter’s 
peril and rescue had first fallen on his knees and shed 
from his eyes tears, almost as big as his own porky 
puffs, of thanksgiving and gratitude; and had then con¬ 
veyed the rough little girl, together with his own 
smooth little girl, back to the castle, which, said he sub¬ 
sequently, and brokenly, to the mother of the rough 
little girl, “ She’s never going to leave, madam. I knew 
her weeks ago, madam, for the finest little lady that 
ever stepped; and she’s showed herself the bravest little 
lady. ‘ I am a Chilperine,’ she said to me that day 
I went there; and I reckon she is, and the best of ’em. 
And I reckon she belongs here, and I reckon Chilperine 
belongs to her; and say what you like, madam, it is 
hers.” 

This “ say what you like ” was because, earlier in the 


n6 THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 

conversation, the mother of the rough little girl, seeing 
that Mr. Pook was really serious in his remarkable in¬ 
tention, had pointed out, very kindly (she also being 
much moved) but very firmly, that the most celebrated 
home in England cannot possibly be given to a small 
schoolgirl whose family has had to sell it because un¬ 
able to afford the upkeep of it. 

“ That must, altogether apart from anything else, 
be plain to you, dear Mr. Pook/’ said the mother of 
the rough little girl. 

“ What’s plain to me,” said Mr. Pook, “ is that my 
little lass is worth to me all the castles in England, and 
that that little lady upstairs is worth all the castles in 
England. There’s an idea suddenly come to me, madam, 
and I’ll go right to my study and do it now. I’ll not 
tell you what it is, madam, till it’s done. But I’ll tell 
you what it’s come to me out of. This castle isn’t for 
my sort. I’m going to give it where it belongs; and 
your brave little lady that belongs to it as much as the 
walls belong to it, I’m going to give her too.” 

With this strange saying Mr. Pook went to his study, 
wrote upon a sheet of paper “To the Right Honorable 
the Prime Minister — Sir ...” and brought to an 
end this story. Some newspaper extracts can close it. 
First those headlines in perfectly enormous type, which 
one day burst out of the Press: 

CHILPERINE FOR THE NATION 


MUNIFICENT BEQUEST 
BY MR. SAMUEL POOK 


AND THE SMOOTH LITTLE GIRL 117 

Then just a sentence from the enthusiastic leading 
articles accompanying them. 

“ Particularly happy, we may say particularly beauti¬ 
ful, is the sole condition on which this princely bene¬ 
factor of the nation makes his gift. . . . ‘ Chilperine,’ 
as he says, 'would not be Chilperine without a Chil¬ 
perine.’ ... A sum of money has been set aside by 
Mr. Pook for purposes of this private upkeep. . . . 
Miss Brenda Chilperine will for her lifetime own and 
dwell in the castle. . . . Mrs. Chilperine, as her accom¬ 
panying letter shows, on behalf of her daughter has 
accepted the trust.” 

More Press Extracts. This one from a New Year 
Honours List: 

TO BE BARONS. 

Mr. Samuel Pook. 

(Donor of Chilperine to the nation.) 

And then this one, not long after, which first has to 
be prefaced by words said by Mrs. Chilperine to Mr. 
Pook during one of the holidays which always the 
smooth little girl and her father spent with the rough 
little girl and her mother. “ Mr. Pook, I insist. Your 
name must go down with the Chilperine name. Look 
what you have done for it. Yes, that is to be your title, 
please.” 

This one: 

“ Mr. Samuel Pook, on his elevation to the peerage, 
has assumed the title of Lord Pook of Chilperine. 

The rough little girl showed it to the smooth little 
girl. “ And mind you, Pook,” said the rough little 


IIS THE ROUGH LITTLE GIRL 

girl, speaking with some difficulty, for her mouth was 
full, “ and mind you, Pook, it sounds jolly well, I think. 
‘ Lord Pook of Chilperine.’ Now I vote we have just 
one more porky puff and that’s all.” 


/ 


t 








THE SWORDSMAN 






THE SWORDSMAN 


This is how Old Wirk tells a story: 

“ I fot at the bade o’ Waterloo-oo-oo.” 

Some explanation is needed. Manifestly Old Wirk 
never fought at the battle of Waterloo. But he 
imagines he did. He is eighty; he is in his dotage; 
he has never been out of Penny Green in his life, and 
his father was never out of it before him. But his 
grandfather fought at Waterloo. His grandfather, 
it is clear, over and over again told his infant grandson 
that, story, and many another story of his life and times; 
and now Old Wirk, living again his childhood, repro¬ 
duces stories precisely as, in that childhood, he had 
them from his grandfather’s lips. He never, in telling 
things told him by his grandfather, says, “ My grandfer 
did so and so.” He always says, “ I did so and so,” 
and, when reasoned with, can by no means be made to 
believe that he didn’t. 

Thus comes “ I fot at Waterloo-oo-oo ”; and the 
reduplication of the final syllable is because Old Wirk 
was some years ago presented by public subscription 
with a set of false teeth; and they get unshipped with 
certain articulations, and his cheeks and his chin and 
his tongue churn them round and round while his lis¬ 
teners sit patiently for him to catch and control them 
and get on with it. But he is very proud of his false 


122 


THE SWORDSMAN 


teeth, and never takes them out except for his meals, a 
singularity that gave some offence to those who had 
subscribed for the teeth; but as Old Wirk said, “ I’ve 
ate wi’ me gooms these score years or more, an’ I never 
can ate clean an’ sharp an’ healthy not but only with 
me goo-oo-ooms.” 

Old Wirk owns and lives at the forge on Penny 
Green. He is long past work at the anvil, but he still 
can do a turn at the bellows; and for the rest he sits 
all day on his bench beside the forge, ceaselessly moving 
his jaws round and round and round, and in the mind 
behind his extraordinarily bright blue eyes (clear and 
shining as a child’s), revolving round and round and 
round a hopelessly confused mixture of his own youth, 
of his father’s youth, and of his grandfather’s youth. 

Precisely at seven every summer evening he crosses 
the road to the Tybar Arms, and there sits with his pot 
of ale and the sires of the village, contributing his part 
to the debates, and, when these touch the past, doing 
so as the contemporary of those whose tombs are 
already overgrown and misshapen in the churchyard 
up the lane. 

It was on one such evening that young Mark Sabre 
(who told me this), recently come to live at Penny 
Green and much appealed to by the antiquities of the 
village, material and corporeal, asked Old Wirk what 
was the story of the ghost which was supposed to haunt 
the Green and to walk it on summer nights, its head 
beneath its arm. 

“ Mrs. Pithycomb told me/’ said Sabre, “ it was some 
way connected with that green patch where the children 


THE SWORDSMAN 


123 


never play ” — and he pointed to a vivid brightness in 
the Green’s burnt summer aspect about which lay the 
remains of wooden rails which one time had fenced it 
off. “ Is that right, Mr. Wirk? ” 

Old Wirk churned his cheeks and tongue and chin, 
and might be imagined churning also the confused 
medley within his brain. 

“ Ou-ai,” said Old Wirk, “ ou-ai. That’s right 
enough. Green’s harnted. Green’s harnted, as many 
a frighted soul ’a’ seen with his own eyes. Willie 
Pringle harnts un, an’ yon patch with the rails is where 
a’ lies an’ where a’ rises. Ou-ai, Willie Pringle was 
buried in churchyard, an’ stone stands there for any 
man to see. But Willie Pringle no lies there. Earth 
hadn’t laid on Willie Pringle mor’n a week when four 
very old and sober men, sitting on this very bench on 
a full-moon night, saw Willie’s awful shape up out of 
yonder place and seek his head and find it lying there 
and start towards them, head under arm, for to ask 
them join it to his shoulders. Ou-ai, they run, they run 
like young chaps for all their rheumatics. Ou-ai, they 
surely did, for I met un running; an’ ever after Willie 
Pringle in’s chosen time has rise there an’ took his 
head an’ walked the Green for one to join it for un. 
An’ never will rest till he finds one, for that’s the curse 
that’s set on un.” 

Sabre asked, “ How came he to lose his head, Mr. 
Wirk?” 

“ Why, be sure, be sure, that’s a tale I’ve told ’ee a 
two-score times an’ more. ’Tis a terrible tale, to be 
sure, an’ a grave warning to maid an’ man alike. Willie 


124 


THE SWORDSMAN 


Pringle lost his head after Corporal Harry come home 
from the great ba’le o’ Waterloo-oo-oo. 

“ Ou-ai, ou-ai, I fot at Waterloo-oo-oo. Drab take 
these teeth o’ mine! Corporal Harry an' me, we fot 
together at Waterloo. ‘ Here they be coming, Zack,’ 
shouts Corporal Harry in me ear; and surely there 
they were, they Frenchies, thundering on their great 
enormous horses of war, and waving their great enor¬ 
mous swords, and shouting in the language of theirs 
which no man can understand, and which was put on 
them in confusion of tongues at the Tower of Babel. 

“ Ou-ai, they were most terrible and mighty to look 
upon, and the hoofs of their horses smote the ground 
like thunder as down they come upon us. I were in 
the fourth rank, standing, and I wished I might have 
been in the front, kneeling, that my prayers would be 
more acceptable to God; for I was a sharp and wicked 
sinner when I was a young man, and in the square at 
Waterloo I made certain sure I would be before the 
Judgment Throne with every bullet I bit with my teeth 
or whiles I rammed it with my rammer-rod. 

“ Ou-ai, dree-four times they mighty an’ enormous 
horses of war come down on us, an’ dree-four times 
drew off an’ come again; an’ I was drenched an’ drip¬ 
ping with blood from horses I put me bagganet to from 
under, and blood of men I forked from their saddles 
like trusses of hay at the thrashing. 

“ Ou-ai, ’twas where I lost my arm, at Waterloo. I 
mind him now, the mighty an’ ferocious Frenchie that 
took my arm from me. I see him now. His horse 
could by no means fall for the bagganets that upheld 


THE SWORDSMAN 


125 


him. An’ he sat atop on his dead beast an’ slashed 
most terrible all about him. An’ he see me eye to eye, 
an’ swings back his mighty sword till his arm to the 
elbow was over his shoulder, an’, thinks I, ‘ I’ll take 
thee with me, Frenchie, if so be my hour is now come.’ 
An’ I set my foot on the bodies before me, an’ I ups 
an’ gives him my bagganet straight to his throat; an’ 
he comes swish with his sword, an’ I goes ha! with my 
bagganet, an’ a most terrible dizziness comes over me; 
an’ I mind I said to one, ‘ Draw me from here ’; an’ a’ 
bawls to me, ‘ Nay, tha’ must die first, Zack’; which 
was the order of the day that every man in the square 
must die where a’ stood an’ move no foot till a’ dropped 
dead.” 

Old Wirk paused and stared before him with be¬ 
mused eyes as though he saw again those sights which 
in actual fact he had never seen; or as if, Sabre 
thought, watching him, some rift of his own individ¬ 
uality struck into the clouds of his fancies and held him 
puzzled. But he shook his head as though to shake it 
clear, and declared, “ Ou-ai, that’s how I lost my arm 
at the great ba’le of Waterloo-oo-oo.” 

One of the younger men, with a wink and a nod, 
called Sabre’s attention to a bit of sport. 

“ Why, but, granfer, tha’s got thy arms, both on 
un.” 

Old Wirk stared at his two hands, one on either 
knee before him, and raised and stared at one and then 
the other. His questioner tittered, and from others of 
the group were capacious “ Haw-haws.” 


126 


THE SWORDSMAN 


The old man turned on them sharply. “ Tell ’ee I 
lost me arm at Waterloo-oo-oo. Tell ’ee I did! ” 

Sabre shook his head in reproof .at the mockers and 
pushed the ale-pot to Old Wirk’s trembling hand. “ Go 
on, Mr. Wirk; go on. You’re telling us about the 
ghost, about how Corporal Harry came home from 
Waterloo.” 

Old Wirk brightened and wetted and gulped. “ Ou- 
ai, ou-ai, when Corporal Harry come home from 
Waterloo. To be sure, to be sure, the terrible thing 
that it was for mortal eye to behold. 

“ Ou-ai, those were days; they surely were days. 
Us run for sojers, Corporal Harry an’ me. Us run for 
sojers, we surely did. I mind me well the day the 
sojers come, an’ round an’ round the green they 
marched with drum an’ colours an’ a great mighty ser¬ 
geant with a handful of favours that a’ waves and 
shouts like the grandly man a’ surely was. An a’ 
sings: 

'With a rub-dub-dub, 

An’ a fol-lol-lol! ’ 

, i 

an’ all the children laughing an’ jumping beside un; 
an’ all the maids smiling and blushing; an’ all the 
young men standing about main silly-looking an’ twist¬ 
ing up their smocks in their hands. 

“ Ou-ai, dree-four times they go round the green 
with the drum an’ colours; an’ then they stand up here 
afore the inn an’ the great an’ mighty sergeant shouts, 
' Now then, my likely lads! Now then, my true-born 
British likely lads, here’s a pocket full o’ shillings an’ a 


THE SWORDSMAN 


127 


knapsack full o’ ribbons, an’ who’s the likely lads, the 
true-born British likely lads, that’s going to have un ? ’ 
“ Ou-ai, I see un now, that grandly man, here on 
this very spot, jingling his shillings an’ a-shaking his 
ribbons; an’ a goodwife cries out to un, ‘Get away 
home, ye powerful an’ wicked sojer man,’ she calls out. 
‘ There’s no likely lads here for ’ee, an’ no war here 
for likely lads to be murdered and shattered in. These 
be no fighting parts,’ she tells un. ‘ Be off wi’ ye, an’ 
shame on ’ee.’ 

“ That grandly man a-shakes his head an’ rattles his 
shillings, an’ smiles an’ laughs, an,’ ‘ My likely lads, 
my likely lads,’ says he, ‘ thy goodwife there would 
keep ye to tie her skirts till ye be old women too. My 
likely lads, the King’s a-calling for ye one an’ all to 
catch Bonaparty, the scourge of Europe, an’ who will 
stop to home when the King’s a-calling him? Who’ll 
wear a smock when a’ can wear a fine red coat ? ’ 

“ An’ with that he sets off, and they all sets off, 
walking in a circle here, with the drum tapping an’ the 
colours 'flying, an’ that grandly man singing: 

‘ Witfra rub-a-dub-dub, 

An’ a fol-lol-lol U* 

an’ giving a shilling an’ pinning a favour here an’ there 
to half a score on us. Right opposite me a’ ’halts and 
cries, ‘ Now one for you, my likely lad. I warrant 
me the King’s got the likeliest lad in all England here.’ 

u Ou-ai, so a’ did say, to be sure, for I was a rare an’ 
likely lad in those days, an’ none in all the village to 
set beside me save only Corporal Harry, who was a 


128 


THE SWORDSMAN 


lusty an’ mighty one as ever woman come abed to in 
these parts. Ou-ai, a’ certainly was. But he was no 
corporal then, ’ee mind me, nor him nor me going for 
sojers then, having a most daring and terrible adven¬ 
ture to our hands which were to come to pass that very 
night; so that us stood away an’ let the sojers an’ the 
chaps go marching off, while we shaped for it. 

“ You mind me, there was in the land in those days 
many a Frenchie that was gentle born in a’s own coun¬ 
try that was prisoner to us an’ that lived with folks on 
parole, as they named it, which was his solemn word 
pledged on’s sword that a’ would not escape. One an’ 
another Eve see’d in they days, an’ one there was a 
year an’ more in the village here. A’ was called 
Mouser, which is what they all are named in their own 
country, an’ a’ lived here with Mr. Crawshaw at the 
white house yonder.” 

This roused Sabre. “ Crawshaws ” was the house he 
had just come to live in. “ Crawshaw! ” he exclaimed 
animatedly. “Why, it’s the house I’ve taken — the 
house I live in! ‘ Crawshaws ’ it’s called; and that’s 

the reason, eh? And a French officer lived there on 
parole in the Napoleonic days! By Jove, that’s inter¬ 
esting! By Jove, fancy that! Go on, Mr. Wirk; do 
go on.” 

“ Ou-ai,” nodded Old Wirk, in no way understand¬ 
ing Sabre’s excitement, but thoroughly well pleased at 
having been the cause of it. “ Ou-ai, ’twas there with 
Mr. Crawshaw this Mouser lived; an’ a’ was a pleasant 
fair-spoken gentleman an’ terrible polite. A’ would 
take off a’s hat to'the lowliest woman; an’ a’ would 


THE SWORDSMAN 


129 


buy sweeties for the children; an’ a 5 would make paper 
boats for un on the pond; an’ a’ would set here on the 
bench with us an’ laugh an’ jabber a’s parley-voo; an’ 
a’ would try drink pot o’ ale an’ screw up a’s face like a 
man with vinegar in a’s mouth, an’ us ud laugh; to be 
sure how we did laugh to see un! 

“ A’ could speak nobbut a word an’ a word of Eng¬ 
lish, an’ no man understand un when a’ did, an’ ’twas 
long o’ that that Harry an’ me come to run for sojers. 
Harry saw a main deal o’ this Mouser, for a’ was 
courting Prudence that was wench in Mr. Crawshaw’s 
kitchen. An’ a’ tells me, Harry, that this was none the 
only courting at that house. Often as he be there, a’ 
tells me, a’ sees this Mouser walking the garden with 
Mr. Crawshaw’s lass, Mistress Anne. An’ there come 
a day when a’ says to me, 4 Zack,’ a’ says, 4 there’s fifty 
guineas to be had for putting the Mouser over to Sand¬ 
wich, by Dover, in Kent, to smugglers that wait to run 
un to France.’ 

44 I says to un, 4 Harry,’T says, 4 ’tis a hanging job 
an’ a’ laughs an’ says, 4 Drabbit, man/ a’ says, ’tis a 
fifty-guinea job an’ tho’llt have five-an’-twenty, Zack, 
an’ I’ll have five-an’-twenty an’ my Prudence likewise, 
which the lass’ll marry me when we get the Mouser 
safe away.’ 

44 1 tell ’ee, chaps, I tell ’ee, sir, I were a rare un in 
those days, an’ ready to chance my neck for any bi’ fun, 
leave alone a pocket of guineas, so I gives ear to un, 
an’ a’ tells me. 

44 A’ tells me a rare tangle o’ stuff. A’ tells me a’ 
was going to do this for Prudence, an’ Prudence she 


130 


THE SWORDSMAN 


be doing it for Mistress Anne, an’ Mistress Anne she 
be doing it for the Mouser, an’ the Mouser he be doing 
it for to see his mother that were dying; an’ me, chaps, 
I did be going to do it for the adventure of it an* for 
the tidy pocket of guineas, an’ because I always did 
what Harry did. Ou-ai, ’twas a rare tangle of reasons, 
it surely was. 

“ Me an’ Harry we went over along to Mr. Craw- 
shaw’s that night, an’ in the garden we settled it all to 
rights, Harry an’ me an’ Mistress Anne an’ Prudence 
an’ the Mouser. The Mouser were a fine bold man, he 
surely were, an’ a rare well-looking un. I mind me 
he had his arm about Mistress Anne while we talked, 
an’ rare an’ sweet she looked at he with tears in her 
eyes while she asked Harry an’ me to take care of un 
on the road an’ see that no mortal ill befell him. 

“ Mouser’s trouble, ye see, chaps, was that a’ could 
speak no English, which was why he surely could not 
travel the roads alone; an’ Mistress Anne she made it 
for us that, when we meet folk on the road, Harry an’ 
me’d be two young chaps taking to Dover a gentleman 
that was deaf mute from his cradle an’ no could talk 
an’ no could hear; an’ ’twas so arranged, an’ on a fine 
clear evening we set out, the dree on us, a hunner an’ 
fifty miles an’ all, an’ us in reckoning to meet the 
smugglers on the tenth day forward — twenty mile a 
day and two-dree days to spare. 

“ Us were gay an’ lively company, for all the Mouser 
could not speak to be understood. We were young 
chaps an’ mighty lusty an’ free, an’ it surely is good to 
be young an’ never a fear an’ only a laugh for all that 


THE SWORDSMAN 


131 

betides, come ill, come good. Us was like, as it were, 
taking a holiday: the Mouser setting for his home; 
an’ Harry an’ me, that had lived long years on the 
Green, seeing new sights such as only once be new to 
a man, an’ never the like again. 

“ Ou-ai, an’ what sights there were, to be sure. 
Why, a strong an’ lively young man might walk the 
roads in these quiet an’ peaceable times an’ see nary a 
single strange thing to set un staring. I tell ’ee ’twas 
no such in they tearing days. I tell ’ee, chaps, I tell ’ee, 
sir, we see with our own eyes a man with a bear and a 
monkey to set to dance like mortal folk; an’ in one vil¬ 
lage us watched a play with puppets that was called 
‘ The Sad Husband,’ an’ that was most wonderful 
to see; an’ there’d be folks travelling post with four 
horses an’ all laid out at a stretch; an’ there’d be a rich 
lord an’s lady travelling in fine coach with cock horse 
behind for to take un up hills; an’ there’d be sober an’ 
respectful gentlemen on a good horse with lady on 
pillion behind un; an’ there’d be trade-folk with pack- 
horse, with rare fine stuffs on un, I warrant me; an’ 
there’d be a chap jog by on a nag, an’ presently us over¬ 
take nag tied to post, an’ presently soon another chap 
jog by us on same nag, which was a common mode of 
travel in they days for two with one horse between un, 
travelling ‘ ride an’ tie,’ as ’twas called. An’ once we 
see at an inn where us bided the night two stern an’ 
sour men that were Bow Street runners, Robin Red¬ 
breasts, as they called un, that were pursuing some evil 
breaker of the law. Ou-ai, a rare fright they give us, 
us thinking they was after we. But they surely were 


THE SWORDSMAN 


132 

not; an’ while at first we were main cautious and fear¬ 
ful of all we met, we come bolder as the days run on 
an’ none take no notice on us nor ask no questions. 

“ Ou-ai, right down into Kent we come, with never 
a slip nor hurt by the way; an’ then the luck turn 
against us an’ mischances come like water through a 
leakin’ roof which ’ee stop one place an’ a’ starts in 
t’other. 

“ Two-score mile or more from Sandwich, by Dover, 
an’ dree days from the night of meeting the smugglers, 
we come by an inn at nightfall an’ made to pass the 
night there, an’ stepped into kitchen an’ found much 
company assembled an’ mighty ungracious. Was a 
fine lady there an’ a fine gentleman, with a wheel off 
their chaise, an’ made to stop for the night along of it, 
an’ mighty ill-pleased to tarry in such a place; an’ two 
fine young officers bound for Dover, making company 
with them, an’ they four desiring all the inn to them¬ 
selves, an’ looking at any that chanced in as so much 
dirt that must keep to one end an’ sit there mum. 

“ Ou-ai, when we made entry, all dripping, for ’twas 
raining amain, ‘ La ! ’ cries the fine lady, ‘ here be three 
more of the wretches. Why, this inn doth collect the 
raff of the roads like bugs in a straw bed. ’Tis mon¬ 
strous unpleasant, and do but see how the stinking 
steam rises off their clothes! Is there no stable for 
such but they must press in where quality is ? 9 

“ With that she puts a bottle to her nose an’ smells 
at it, an’ her fine lord puts glass to his eye an’ stares at 
us, an’ the fine young officers put also bottles to their 
noses an’ stare, an’ the company beside the fire that 


THE SWORDSMAN 


133 


likely had been talked to thus, each in’s turn, looked 
mighty sour upon us, which was to make favour with 
the fine folk, ’ee understand, an’ show they had no lot 
nor part with such as we. 

“ Us made to take stools quiet by the fire, never 
liking, ’ee mind me, to call folks’s regard to ourselves; 
but whiles we ate of our vittles, the quality folk must 
chatter on idle tongues at us, the common company 
sniggering to hear it, an’ us mighty disturbed an 
uncomfortable, I do assure ’ee. 

“ This Mouser, ’ee mind me, was dressed like sober 
an’ decent gentleman, an’ carried short sword by’s side; 
an’ the fine lady with her eye on un, ‘ Him wear a 
laced waistcoat,’ she cries. ‘ La, ’tis monstrous strange 
to wear a laced waistcoat an’ carry sword an’ be keeping 
company with such! WEat manner of gentleman can 
that be that does so ? ’ 

“ ‘ Has a hang-dog look,’ says her lord, quizzing the 
Mouser through his glass. 

“ ‘ ’Fore George,’ says one of the officers, * has a 
nasty French look, or I never see a Frenchman that 
have run two-score through the body, a says. 

“ I tell ’ee, sir, I tell ’ee, chaps, I began to be sore 
afraid with this manner of talk, an’ I put my elbow 
into Corporal Harry’s side for him to say summat that 
could speak to quality more mannerly an bold than 
ever the like o’ me. 

“ Corporal Harry touches his lock in a well-behaved, 
sober, modest way, an’ a’ says, 4 Thy pardon, madam, 
a’ says, ‘ thy pardon, sirs, the gentleman is no French 
but true-born English an’s father is man of property 


134 


THE SWORDSMAN 


an’ good estate beyond Dover. An’ by thy kind leave. 
Lady, an’ by the most terrible affliction of God, a’s 
born deaf-mute an’ neither speaks nor yet hears, an’ be 
come from Bath where a most notable physician has 
seen un, an’ be travelling now to a’s father’s estate— 
in our company an’ protection, an’t please thee.’ 

44 Ou-ai, a’ could speak properly, Corporal Harry 
could, remembering all that Mistress Anne had told un 
to say, an’ saying it most bold an’ convincing. But it 
surely was of no avail with they. 4 A fine tale,’ cried 
the lady. 4 Keep it where ’tis asked of thee,’ she cries. 

‘ Speaking to thy betters ! La! ’ cries she to the officers, 

‘ ’tis a nice thing that I should be spoken up to my face 
by any dirt that pleases! ’ 

“ Her lord, that likely was accustomed to her such 
like whimseys, laughs; but one o’ the young officers 
takes up with her. 4 Will have the room cleared for 
’ee, madam,’ a’ says to her, * if it likes ’ee, madam,’ a’ 
says. 4 But sound the precious mute if he be mute to 
French or to English only,’ a’ says. 4 Try him with 
thy French, madam,’ a’ says. 

44 ’Ee mind me, chaps, ’ee mind me, sir, the Mouser 
could understand no word of this that they was saying, 
an’ for some cause I could no warn un; an’ whiles I 
broke out a most cruel sweat all hot an’ cold in all parts 
of my body, an’ whiles I see by Corporal Harry’s face 
that a’ was suffering the same, the lady in a very quick 
an’ sharp voice cries out some jabber of most foreign 
an’ outlandish language; an’ every man’s eye was on 
the Mouser, watching him, an’ to my most terrible 
horror an’ fear, a’ starts up a’s head as though a’ was 


THE SWORDSMAN 


135 

stung, an’ a’ flushes in the face red as a maid that have 
had a rude immodest word spoken to her. 

“ Ou-ai, it surely was a clever cunning trap as ever 
I did behold, an’ that Mouser fair caught in un, an’ 
Corporal Harry an’ me fair caught along on un, an’ all 
jumps to their feet an’ shouts; an’ I tell ’ee, chaps, I 
see plain before my eyes the most terrible an’ alarming 
spectacle of myself hanging from gibbet for escaping 
a Frenchie like once had seen the body of a most law¬ 
less an’ dangerous man swinging over to Chovensbury 
cross roads, 

“ Ou-ai, they all jump to their feet, one an’ all, 
quality an’ common company alike; an’ the young 
officer hollers out, ‘ ’Fore George,’ a’ hollers, ‘a villain 
Frenchman, as well I knew the minute I set eyes on 
un,’ a’ hollers. An’ a’ tugs out a’s sword; an’ the fine 
lady spits out some more French language; an’ that 
Mouser, like as if it was some most terrible insult, goes 
red as turkey cock an’ fires back some most fierce an’ 
hissing language, an’ the lady screams; an’ ‘ Oh, the 
horrible villain! ’ she calls out; ‘ Oh, the disgusting 
French villain! ’ an’ the officer comes at un with a’s 
sword; an’ the Mouser pulls out sword to un; an’ one 
ups with a stool an’ cracks un on head from behind; 
an’ down a’ goes crash; an’ another catches my boots 
from beneath me an’ down I goes on top of un; an’ 
another runs in on Corporal Harry, an’ Corporal Harry 
ups stool an’ lends un a flick that splits skull for un; 
an’ a’ swings stool, Corporal Harry does, an’ there 
surely never was such hard an’ terrible battle in peace¬ 
able inn afore. Ou-ai, ’twas most terrible to behold 


THE SWORDSMAN 


136 

an’ to hear, with shouting and most blasphemous oaths, 
an’ the lady screaming, an’ the young officers trying 
to run Harry through with swords an’ no able to get 
near un for the press. Ou-ai, ’twas certainly most 
terrible to behold; but they was too many for Corporal 
Harry, lookee, and very soon a’ was down an’ a dozen 
upon un, an’ soon all dree on us trussed with stout 
ropes an’ pitched in stable. 

44 Ou-ai, there we surely were, the dree on us, in 
most sad an’ alarming situation as ever mortal man 
could surely be in. I tell ’ee, chaps, I tell ’ee, sir, I lay 
there in the dark most forlornly aching in every limb 
of my body where I’d been treaded on an’ battered 
whiles I lay on the floor; an’ I lay there most dismally 
beholding my poor sinful body swinging on gibbet, an’ 
with all the glory departed out of our adventure that 
I had took up with so merry a heart, an’ wishing most 
solemnly an’ painfully that I never had started upon 
un, but had stayed home to Penny Green, content with 
my lot an’ portion, like any sober an’ proper young 
man should. 

“ Ou-ai, I were most sore amazed an’ fearful; an’ 
presently I says, 4 Harry/ I says, 4 we be in most sor¬ 
rowful an’ mortal plight/ I says to un; 4 an’ we best be 
preparing to meet our God/ I says; which, lookee, 
chaps, they’d hollered at us when they chuck us in 
stable that, come morning, the young officers would 
swear to us before magistrate at Dover an’ have war¬ 
rant out and officers of the law sent over for to fetch 
us to prison to trial an’ execution. 

44 Corporal Harry give a laugh, an’ I tell ’ee, chaps, 


THE SWORDSMAN 


137 

’twas no rueful laugh as ’ee might expect that a’ gave, 
but a bold and merry laugh, for a’ was ever a bold an’ 
merry un, come lot, come scot; an’ a’ says, ‘ Zack,’ a’ 
says, ‘ tha can prepare to meet thy God, an't please 
thee, but first must prepare to get out from here; for 
I tell ’ee, Zack, ’ee can make collar for horse, but that’s 
no putting a’s head in un; an’ they can make rope collar 
for me, but I surely am not going to wait here for to be 
fitted with un. I’ve my hands nigh free,’ a’ says, ‘ an’ 
in nobbut a minute I’ll free thine, an’ us’ll see if there 
be no way from here but the door,’ a’ says; ‘which I 
see a crack in roof as I lie here on my back,’ a’ says, 
‘ an’ where there’s a small crack there’s way for a 
bigger,’ a’ says. 

“ Ay, marry, a’ was a bold un, Corporal Harry. A’ 
was presently searching round in dark on hands an’ 
knees, an’ a’ found a billhook, an’ in two-dree minutes 
a’ cut my bonds, an’ cut his’n; an’ we cut free the 
Mouser that was groaning sore with crack on’s head, 
but come to brave an’ lively when we free un an’ rouse 
un an’ show un by pointing to broken rafters in roof 
what we would be after; an’ presently soon Corporal 
Harry that was biggest stands straggle-leg beneath 
crack in roof, an’ I climbs on’s shoulders, an’ the 
Mouser, that were a light an’ nimble one, a’ climbs on 
mine, an’ a’ takes billhook an’ a’ cuts away rafters that 
were rotten like cutting cheese, an’ a’ lays hold of beam, 
an’ a’ gives jump an’ kick, an’ a’ sends Corporal Harry 
an’ me sprawling, but a’ clambers up, an’ ’twas no very 
hard work for me off of Harry’s shoulders to 
follow un. 


THE SWORDSMAN 


138 

“ Ou-ai, there was Mouser an’ me on the roof; an' 
we reach down my jacket an’ Corporal Harry fastens 
on to un, an’ a’ kicks an’ wriggles, an’ we hold on amain 
like our arms ud come out their sockets, an’ presently 
soon a’ catches my wrists an’ the Mouser lays hold of 
a’s hair, an’ a' squeals an’ cries, 4 Drabbit, Zack,’ a’ 
cries, 4 make un leave go of my hair or a’ surely will 
pull scalp off top of my head.’ An’ I chokes a laugh out 
of me, pulling at un, an’ I says, 4 Better the scalp off tha 
head than tha head off tha body on gibbet/ I says; an’ 
presently soon we pull un so a’ gets a’s arm through 
roof, an’ a’ swings a’s self up, an’ there we be, the 
dree on us, up on main top of roof, an’ it surely do 
make me dizzy to think of our most fearsome an’ peril¬ 
ous plight, right up in the sky an’ mortal dark all 
round, an’ no man to know how we should slip down 
pitch of roof, nor how then get to ground, nor what 
like manner of ground awaited for us to get down to. 

44 How us should ha’ settled un I surely do not know, 
but, whiles we sat to think on un, that Mouser some¬ 
how slips, an’ a’ gives a screech an’ away a’ goes, an’ 
there comes a rattle of tiles an’ another screech, an’ 
then a most mighty an’ alarming thud, an’ then lan¬ 
guage that was wicked oaths, sure enough, though in 
the French language, an’ not to be understood. 

44 Us no could help laughing, Harry an’ me, all ter¬ 
rible an’ alarming as our situation was, an’ then Harry 
says, 4 If a’ can swear a’ can live,’ a’ says; 4 an’ where 
a Mouser can go, I’m main sure I can follow,’ a’ says; 

4 so here goes, Zack,’ a’ says, an’ a’ pushes the ridge of 
roof with a’s hands — a’ was laying sprawled out on’s 


THE SWORDSMAN 


139 

belly; ’ee mind me — an’ away a’ goes, slithering; an’ 
there comes to me presently a breaking and then a thud, 
an’ then most sinful and blasphemous oaths, which ’ee 
might fairly call the good English of the same words 
the Mouser had said. 

“ I tell ’ee, chaps, I tell ’ee, sir, I had main little 
stomach for the terrible danger of casting myself loose 
an’ following un; but there surely was less stomach in 
me for stopping where I be’d, what with the noise they 
two had made by their falling and their oaths, an’ the 
mortal fear that was upon me of being taken to gibbet 
to hang by neck. 

“ Wherefore I prayed a most solemn prayer that I 
should not break my neck nor hang by un neither, an’ 
I let myself go with my hands, and down I slipped, 
tearing my stomach most cruel and painful; and I goes 
quicker an’ quicker, and whizz! I goes over the edge, 
an’ down I comes crash an’ splash into most evil an’ 
terrible muck-heap which my face buried in, an’ which 
was what caused they other two to make the oaths they 
had sworn, an’ would have me — for, God forgive me! 
chaps, I had no found religion in those days; but, ’ee 
mind me, I was that rare thankful not to have broken 
my neck nor no bones that my heart was filled more 
with praise than with blasphemy, as I do hope will be 
remembered for me when I come to face the awful 
Day of Judgment. 

“ Ou-ai, I surely were thankful to think I were free 
with no harm done, for all I were soused and fair 
stinking with that muck-heap; ou-ai, ’twas thankful I 
was; but ’ee can think, chaps, ’ee can think, sir, the 


140 


THE SWORDSMAN 


great fright that descended upon me, an’ upon they, at 
the very same instant; for I had done no more than 
raise me up when a window of the inn just beside of 
us was thro wed up an’ the voice of that fine lady 
shrieks with a most alarming and blood-curdling shriek. 
‘ Murder! ’ she shrieks. * Thieves, fire, murder, vil¬ 
lains !’ she shrieks. ‘ ’Tis they dree villains escaping! ’ 
she shrieks. 4 Come to un, come to un, come to un! ’ 

“ With that comes shouts an’ runnings an’ bangings, 
an’ all together such a terrible an’ alarming din as ears 
surely never did hear before. An’ Harry an’ me an’ 
that Mouser we run one way, an’ men come pouring 
out of the ground, as you might believe, in front 
of us; an’ up in a window some one calls out, ‘ Stand 
in the King’s name! ’ but I was that terrified an’ bewil¬ 
dered, running this way an’ running that, that I would 
not ha’ stood in the devil’s name; an’ he that had 
shouted then fires great blunderbus from window, an’ 
bullets fly all round, an’ some one lets out a screech, an’ 
I runs into one man in’s shirt an’ trousers, an’ I hits 
un a flick an’ down a’ goes; an’ I hears Harry shout¬ 
ing, * This way, Zack, this way, Zack! ’ and I sets for 
un, an’ another man jumps up at me an’ I goes for to 
flick un an’ a’ lets out a jabber, so I knowed un for 
Mouser, an’ I takes his hand an’ we run by wall an’ 
over gate an’ finds us on road, an’ runs like all the 
powers of darkness was behind us; an’ we come up 
with Harry an’ all dree of us run; an’ where we was 
to in the darkness I by no means could say; but the 
shouting back of us was soon not to be heard, an’ us 
throws ourselves down an’ pants an’ sweats like ’ee 


THE SWORDSMAN 


141 

might think our lungs was bursting, which surely was 
how mine did feel.” 

Old Wirk had been reciting these passages relative 
to the escape from the inn with an animation in keeping 
with the scurrying hurly-burly of its action; now, as 
he came to the throwing of themselves down in exhaus¬ 
tion, so by exhaustion his narrative seemed to cease. 
His flow stopped; his jaws and lips and tongue churned 
vigorously, but churned silently; once, staring upon 
his listeners with his bright blue eyes, which appeared, 
however, to be regarding scenes much more remote, he 
said, “ Ou-ai, ’twas a night of sore peril, a most peril¬ 
ous night it surely was,” then the silent churning again 
— the apparent, and highly unsatisfactory end. 

Chuckles at the blank surprise in Sabre’s face rose 
from those seated about. One man took pity. “ Well, 
but that ain’t end, granfer,” he called. 

“ Tell ’ee,” said Old Wirk sharply, “ tell ’ee that’s 
how us run for sojers, Corporal Harry an’ me.” 

“ Gen’leman wants to hear end, granfer.” 

“ Tell ’ee that’s how us run for sojers. Tell ’ee 
that’s how ’twas.” 

There came to Sabre the sudden wit to jump the aged 
man over the obvious hiatus. He leant forward and 
put his tobacco pouch on the lap of Old Wirk’s smock. 
“ I see, I see, Mr. Wirk. That’s a splendid story. I 
see. There was such a search and an outcry after you 
when you’d got away that you and Harry went for 
soldiers somewhere near by, as the best way of keeping 
hid. Of course you did.” 


142 


THE SWORDSMAN 


“ Surely, surely,” said the aged man, and filled his 
pipe with trembling old fingers. 

“ At Dover?” 

“ Nay, nay, nary Dover, sir. Us durst not show to 
Dover. Ramsgate. At Ramsgate ’twas that Harry an’ 
me went for sojers. Ou-ai, all horses an’ sojers an’ 
powerful enormous cannons an’ ships was at Rams¬ 
gate for the great army going for to sail to Portugal, 
which was the Peninsular, as they come to call un.” 

A ravishment of interest thrilled Sabre. He was 
fairly well up in the history of the Napoleonic wars. 
Astounding to meet in the flesh one who, as it were, 
had fought in the Peninsular campaign! The old man 
had no more fought in those battles than he had; but 
the trick of his failed brain caused him to produce 
stories of those days precisely as if he were the ghost of 
that grandsire of his come out of that stirring past 
whose history his musket had helped to shape. It 
thrilled Sabre. He told himself, “That’s what he is! 
When he’s like this he’s not Old Wirk of to-day. He’s 
just the spirit of his grandfather. By Jove, I’m talking 
to a chap who perhaps fought at Almeida, at Ciudad 
Rodrigo, at Albuera, who perhaps was with Moore at 
Corunna! Think of it!” 

He addressed Old Wirk aloud. “ At Ramsgate, of 
course it was, Mr. Wirk. That’s where General — I’ve 
forgotten his name — some General or other sailed 
with a brigade for Portugal to join Wellington, who’d 
gone from Cork. You went with him, eh? You and 
Corporal Harry. A great army of you, eh? Scores of 
ships, weren’t there ? ” 


THE SWORDSMAN 


143 

“ Ou-ai,” said Old Wirk, “ ou-ai, a power of ships 
there surely was.” He nodded and silently churned, 
and silently churned and nodded. He said, “ Ou-ai, 
they ships! ’Twas terrible. Ah, terrible surely ’twas. 
One day we was all floating together like flock of ducks 
on a pond, and next day all scattered an’ gone, an’ us 
tossing in most terrible storm, an’ many days tossing, 
an’ terribly drove by most cruel storm, an’ drove on to 
rocks an’ shipwrecked, an’ not above a score on us 
rescued to land which were by Portland in Dorset- 
sheer.” 

Sabre stared, puzzled, and then realised another 
hiatus in the drifting narrative and a hiatus much more 
vexing. The various expeditions to Portugal, that 
from Ramsgate included, had reached the seat of war 
in safety. It was after Sir John Moore’s glorious 
retreat to Corunna that storm had caught the home¬ 
ward transports, and strewn them, with their war¬ 
worn burthens, all along the Channel coast from Land’s 
End to Dover. Old Wirk’s grandfather had been at 
Corunna then, and annoying Old Wirk had jumped the 
whole campaign and straddled right across to its ter¬ 
mination! Disappointing, disappointing! Sabre tried 
coaxingly to return the aged mind to the shores of the 
Peninsula, but Old Wirk only churned and developed 
not the smallest response to stimulus. Younger men 
sitting about laughed, and shortly began to move away: 
“ He’ll no’ but talk when he’s a mind to, sir.” Vet¬ 
eran sires of the village who remained drew apart into 
their own gossip. Sabre, alone with Old Wirk, tried 
him this way and tried him that; and suddenly the 


144 


THE SWORDSMAN 


thread was taken up again — an interval of years 
between the dropped end and the end resumed, but 
still — 

“ But the ghost that haunts the Green, Mr. Wirk,” 
Sabre had said in desperation of final appeal. “ That 
was what you were telling me, you know. You’ve got 
up to how you and Harry went for soldiers, and then 
how you fought in the Peninsula; but Waterloo was 
quite some years later, and you said the ghost came 
after that; you said the Green’s been haunted ever 
since Corporal Harry came back from Waterloo. The 
ghost of Willie — Willie Pringle. Now, do tell me, 
Mr. Wirk. After Waterloo— do tell me that.” 

“ Tell ’ee I fot at Waterloo-oo-oo,” announced Mr. 
Wirk suddenly and querulously. 

“ Of course you did. Of course you did. I know 
you did. And you were in the square, and Corporal 
Harry shouted , 4 Here they be coming, Zack,’ and down 
on you they thundered.” 

The spring was touched. 44 Ou-ai,” said Old Wirk. 
44 Ou-ai, they Frenchies thundering on their great 
enormous horses of war an’ waving their great 
enormous swords-” 

44 But if he goes over it all again,” thought Sabre, 
44 we shall just come back to the same place,” and he 
boldly interrupted. 44 Yes, well then, when Corporal 
Harry come back from Waterloo. How did he come 
back, Mr. Wirk? ” 

44 He come back a blind man,” said Mr. Wirk. 

Dramatic effect! Enticing possibilities! 44 Blind! ” 
cried Sabre keenly. 44 He was blinded in the fighting, 



THE SWORDSMAN 145 

eh? And came back with you? You brought him 
back ? ” 

Old Wirk shook his head. “ Nay, nay. I was nigh 
a twelvemonth returned afore Corporal Harry came 
back. Nigh a twelvemonth, an’ had set my mind to it 
that he had bin killed, when a .’ suddenly comes, walking 
up the Green here as sudden as if he had sprung out of 
it. Ay, marry, and in nobbut two-dree hours walking 
off again, blind as a’ was, an’ none that knew un never 
set eye on un again, that day to this.” 

“ But that was strange, Mr. Wirk, going off so soon 
like that. Why? What happened? Did something 
happen to make him go again at once ? ” 

“ Ou-ai,” said Old Wirk. “ Ou-ai, sommat surely 
did happen, an’ the most terrible thing that ever mortal 
eye did behold. Lookee, sir, ’twas a fair day on the 
Green here, the day that Corporal Harry come back. 
There was tents an’ booths an’ giddy-go-round horses 
an’ shooting galleries, an’ all sorts of most wonderful 
an’ most merry sights for to see. And there was may- 
pole an’ lads an’ lassies dancing round un, an’ all merry 
an’ beautiful as ever a holiday could be. An’ while I 
stood watching the dancers, one says to me, ‘ Look, 
Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ what strange man be yon that comes 
this way ? ’ An’ I looks, an’ one an’ another looks, an’ 
presently all be looking, an’ a’ comes straight into the 
middle of us, the strange figure that us see. A’ was 
dressed in a sojer’s coat, an’ a! was smart an’ trim an’ 
pretty to look upon; an’ a’ whistled an’ sung an’ 
laughed as a’ walked, an’ a’ carried in’s hand a long 
sword that was like streak of lightning with the sun 


THE SWORDSMAN 


146 

that dazed upon un, an’ was like brand of fire where 
a’ held un, for that the handle was of beaten gold an’ 
most beautiful to see. 

“ An’ as a’ comes, whistling an’ singing, a’ some¬ 
times stops an’ throws aloft the sword high, high till 
it was no but a shining star in the sky; an’ a’ holds up 
a’s hand as though a’ called to it, an’ down like a light¬ 
ning-flash it comes, an’ the maids scream to see it 
rushing upon un, an’ a’ catches it in a’s hand safe an’ 
sure as a bird to its nest, an’ a’ twirls it round like a 
ring of fire, an’ a’ laughs an’ throws an’ catches an’ 
twirls un again. An’ while we stand an’ stare a’ calls 
out, * Hey, my lassies,’ a’ calls out. ‘ Hey, my lassies; 
hey, my lads. Doth none know me ? Doth none know 
me ? I be come back from the wars to my home an’ for 
my bride; an’ I know my home, an’ I know ’ee all, 
lads an’ lassies, though I no can see home nor bride nor 
none of ’ee; but by the like of it, none knows me. Is 
old Zack not there that a’ doth not know me ? ’ a’ says. 

“ An’ I knew un then, for all a’ looked so strange. 
An’ a’ calls out ‘ Harry! ’ to un, an’ goes to un, an’ 
one an’ another that remembered un; for all a’ had 
not bin to village for long years an’ had growed un¬ 
common, one an’ another calls out, 4 Why, ’tis Harry! ’ 
an’ flocks about un; an’ a’ laughs an’ banters, an’ a’ 
tells us a’s blind, an’ a’ says that though he no can see 
his pretty bride, he’s come for to fetch her; an’ he 
asks, ‘ Where be she, then, my jolly playmates ? Where 
be my sweetheart, my true love, my Prudence ? ’ 

“ Ou-ai, a’ asked ’em that; an’ they look one upon 
another an say no word; an’ they look upon me as 


THE SWORDSMAN 


147 

saying ’twas me should tell un; an’ they draw off an’ 
leave us an’ go back to their junketings; an’ I says to 
un, ‘ Harry,’ I says, ‘ thy maid Prudence be dead an’ 
laid in churchyard.’ 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ was she maid 
or mother when they laid her there ? ’ 

“ An’ I tells un, ‘ Mother.’ 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ was she wife 
or widow ? ’ 

“ An’ a’ tells un, * Nay, Harry, nor wife nor widow 
were the lass.’ 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, 4 died she in her 
bed as a lass dies ? ’ 

“An’ I tells un, ‘Nary bed, Harry; in the stream 
by Puncher’s farm they found her.’ 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ ’tis all gospel 
true, then, what the lass wrote in letter to me, an’ what 
I heard from one by camp fire when us fot the French- 
ies, Zack, an’ what I heard from one in Tidborough 
town dree nights ago ? ’ 

“ An’ I tells un, ‘ Mortal true, Harry.’ 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ ’twas Willie 
Pringle wronged the lass? ’Twas Willie Pringle took 
from me my bride, my pretty sweetheart, my pretty 
Prudence ?’ 

“ An’ I tells un, ‘ Harry, ’twas.’ 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ tell me, now, 
be Willie Pringle here on Green while Prudence lies 
in churchyard ? ’ 

“ An’ I looks with my eyes to maypole an’ I tells 
un, ‘ Harry, ay.’ 


THE SWORDSMAN 


148 

“ An’ a’ says to me, ‘ Zack,’ a’ says, ‘ be Willie 
Pringle sporting an’ laughing with the lassies an’ lads 
while Prudence lies very cold in churchyard ? ’ 

“ An’ I tells un, ‘ Harry, ay.’ 

“ A’ turns to me, sir, an’ a’ says, ‘ Lead me down to 
un, Zack. Lead me right down to un. I lief would 
sport an’ play with Willie Pringle.’ 

“ Now lookee, sir, an’ listen, for this is how ’twas. 
Harry among the lads an’ lassies calls to un an’ says 
to un, ‘ My lads an’ lassies, my fond and friendly play¬ 
mates,’ a’ says, * stand about me an’ hark to me an’ fine 
sport for the fair I’ll give ’ee. Many fairs an’ many 
inns I’ve made sport for in the Frenchies’ land an’ all 
along the roads from here to Dover. I can sport with 
a sword like blind man never sported yet — nay, nor 
yet man with eye in’s head. See, lads an’ lassies all, ’tis 
a gentleman’s sword, a nobleman’s sword, a prince’s 
sword. From dead Frenchy I took un on field of 
Waterloo, an’ see the hilt of gleaming gold with jewels, 
an’ see the blade of true Damascus steel, lithe as a 
serpent, strong as an oak tree, quick as an adder’s 
tongue, true as a lover to his lass. My lads an’ lassies, 
when I should ha’ come home to my true love after the 
great battle of Waterloo, I fell in with lively ones at the 
great city of Brussels, an’ one was a swordsman that 
could do mighty wonders with a sword. Him an’ me, 
when our money was gone, made company together. 
A’ was a Prooshan, an’ one of they that come to us at 
Waterloo. A’ larned me sword-play, an’ I were quick 
to learn an’ soon as good as he. Us pleased the folk 
same like as I now will please ye. But a’ was a sorry 


THE SWORDSMAN 


149 


villain, that Prooshan was. A’ growed jealous o’ me, 
an’ us quarrelled, an’ I beat un sore. A’ swore ven¬ 
geance on me, an’ one night, in drink, a’ came at me an’ 
throwed that at me that blinded me; an’ I caught un 
before a’ could run, an’ I ran sword through’s body. 
My lassies an’ lads, though blind I was, an’ though blind 
I be, I still can do un yet. For lookee, lads an’ lassies, 
my part in our sword-play was done blindfold, an’ that 
which a’ had learned me to do with cloth about my eyes, 
same as ever I could do with the darkness ever upon 
me. Ye shall see; ye shall see. Ring round me, lads 
an’ lassies, an’ see sword-play such as never ye see 
afore.’ 

“ All on us ringed round un, sir, an’ true it is never 
afore were such play seen with a sword. A’ whirled his 
sword, an’ a’ twisted his sword, an a cut with his 
sword and thrust with his sword, till ’ee would ha’ said 
the man stood within a maze of hoops of shining silver. 
Ou-ai, ou-ai, most marvellous it was to behold, to be 
sure. An’ when a’ was done with that, a called for 
ribbons an’ a’ called for apples, an’ a’ throwed un aloft 
an’ cut un as they fell in manner most astonishing to 
see. An’ when a’ was done with that a’ called for bold 
uns to set apple on throat an a would sever un in 
halves, all blind as a’ was, an’ make never so much as 
a scratch on the throat that had the apple on un. We 
was main afeared at first for to let un try, but a’ 
laughed so bold an’ so mocking that first me an’ then 
another an’ then another come forward an’ leaned us 
back on soles of our feet an’ palms of our hands an’ 


THE SWORDSMAN 


150 

stretched back our heads an’ had apple cut in twain on 
our throats, and nary scratch nor touch. 

“ Ou-ai, ’twas wonderful, ’twas wonderful. Up 
’ud go his sword high as a’ could reach, an’ down swift 
as a’ could hit; an’ all us ’ud hold our breaths for fear, 
an’ the lassies scream, an’ lo, there was the apple in 
twain on grass, an’ he whose throat it had bin on 
laughing an’ proud to ha’ shown his courage. There 
was many hung back a feared till for shame of the 
lassies’ eyes, an’ for mocking of those that had come 
forward, they come out an’ took their turn. An’, 
lookee, sir, each one that came Corporal Harry would 
cry, ‘Who be this?’ an’ us ud shout, ‘ Benjy Will- 
comequick,’ or whosoever it might be; an’ Corporal 
Harry would raise his sword an’ say, ‘ A good stroke, 
then, for Benjy Willcomequick, an’ a true stroke for 
un! ’ an’ down his sword would come — swoo-oo-oop. 
Drab take these teeth o’ mine. 

“ So it went on, sir. An’ presently Harry says, 
‘ Lo,’ says he, ‘ all that I knew here an’ that were play¬ 
mates with me ha’ come, but there be one that has not 
come, an’ one I fain would come, for well I knew un 
an’ many’s the honest fun we’ve had together. ’Tis 
Willie Pringle, I mean. Is he not here ? ’ 

“ An’ the lads an’ lassies laugh an’ cry, * He is here, 
Harry; he is here.’ 

“ An’ he cries, ‘ Ha! Right glad I am he be here. 
Good welcome to ’ee, Willie Pringle. Come forward, 
come forward. Show thou be’st not afeared of me, 
Willie Pringle. What cause hast thou to fear me, 
man? ’ 


THE SWORDSMAN 


151 

“ Sir, they all turn to Willie Pringle for to pull un 
forward; an’ Willie Pringle hung back an’ said a’ felt 
ill an’ that the sun had bin too strong for un. A’ hung 
back, an’ truly ill a’ looked, an’ ghastly white, and the 
sweat running like water down his face. But they 
laughed at un an’ called to un, an’ for shame a’ could 
not tarry, an’ they pushed un forward, an’ into the 
ring he comes, an’ sets down on feet an’ hands an’ 
stretches out his throat, an’ Harry, with never a word, 
puts apple on un. 

“ Ou-ai, but sick an’ ghastly Willie Pringle looked, 
an’ the sweat streaming down his face, an’ him so 
shaking that twice the apple rolled from’s throat an’ 
fell, an’ us shouts to Harry ’twas fallen, an’ with never 
a word but only a smile Harry feels for apple on the 
grass an’ sets it back again. 

“ Then all be fixed at last, an’ Harry puts his sword 
aloft, an’ says he, as he had said for t’others, ‘ Who 
be this? ’ an’ they cry to un, ‘ Willie Pringle.’ An’ a’ 
says, 4 A good stroke, then, for Willie Pringle an’ a 
true stroke for un! ’ 

“ An’ a change comes in’s voice, an’ a’ says in a loud 
crying voice, * Untruly thou hast dealt by a maid, Willie 
Pringle, but truly will I deal with thee. Untruly thou 
hast robbed a maid of her virtue, an’ untruly me of 
my love, but truly will I deal with thee.’ 

“ An’ a’ takes his sword up higher yet. An’ a most 
terrible silence an’ a most terrible fear falls on all the 
company; an’ I see man clutching man an’ maid clutch¬ 
ing maid; an’ all would cry an’ run to stop un, but 
none could move, so terrible did he look; an’ I thought 


THE SWORDSMAN 


152 

to see Willie Pringle twist an’ roll away, but a’ was 
fixed there as though bound with iron bands, an’ his 
eyes staring an’ the sweat like water on un. 

“ An’ Harry in a most terrible voice says, “ Untruly 
thou hast taken a life, Willie Pringle, but truly a life 
thou shalt give.’ 

“ An’ a’ cries in a very loud voice, 4 Ha! ’ an’ down 
his sword come like lightning from above, an’ through 
apple an’ through throat an’ through neck it goes, an’ 
the head falls an’ rolls; an’ in the mist before my e’en, 
an’ in the horror an’ the dismay an’ the confusion, I 
see Harry wipe his blade on grass an’ sheathe his 
sword an’ pass through the press an’ walk away, none 
having wits nor courage to stop un.” 


THE GRIM TEST 













THE GRIM TEST 


I 

She was made to be loved. In her face were red 
roses beneath cream roses; in her eyes were violets 
when the dew is on the violets and the sun is on the 
dew; in her voice (if you can understand this) was a 
June morning in the garden, when all the house except 
yourself is still asleep; in her laugh was a silver bell. 
Her name was Elsie; she was an orphan; she lived all 
alone; she worked very hard for a very poor living; 
her years were twenty-two. She was made to be loved; 
but she was twenty-two and somehow she never had 
been loved. It’s a rum world. 

Now come to James. 

James, who had moderate wealth, considerable fame 
and numerous acquaintances, had also enormous lone¬ 
liness. When, simultaneously, wealth and fame came 
to James (who, when he was pursuing it, had fondly 
imagined fame to be a milk-white doe that he would 
lead with a ribbon, but who, when come up with it, 
discovered it to be a lion that leapt about him roaring 
his name into the uttermost corners of the earth so 
that the earth shook, very greatly alarming and dis¬ 
comforting him), when wealth and fame in this guise 
came to James, James, to deal with the invitations and 


THE GRIM TEST 


156 

the commissions that flowed upon him — James was a 
painter — found it convenient to employ a secretary; 
and what James — whose other name was Prince, 
James Prince — what James thought about his secre¬ 
tary was precisely what, in regard to his enormous 
loneliness, he felt about his friends and his books. 

James, a painfully self-conscious man, suffered con¬ 
siderable embarrassment in dictating letters to this 
secretary of his and frequently when she had gone 
rewrote letters quite different from the letters he 
had dictated to her, and what James felt about her 
was this: he wished she could appear before him, 
as out of a trap-door, at any moment that he desired 
her to appear. This, as you can see for yourself, 
the secretary, with the best will in the world, could 
not possibly do; and the position between James and 
his secretary was this : invariably when James felt that 
he could dictate his correspondence with the ease and 
the fluency of a gramophone, his secretary, who came 
by appointment, was miles and hours beyond reach; 
and invariably when, by appointment, his secretary sat 
before him, the soul of James was abashed, the mind 
of James was confused and the tongue of James was 
tied in a double knot, tight. It was a great relief to 
James when his secretary finished and left; and though 
it was doubtless equally a relief to the secretary she, as 
James, left gloomily alone, gloomily reflected, was 
compensated by payment for her association with 
James, whereas James was not compensated by any¬ 
thing for his hours with his secretary, “ or,” as he 
would say glumly, “ or with anybody else.” 


THE GRIM TEST 


157 


For, yes, precisely as the attitude of James towards 
his secretary was the attitude of James towards his 
friends and his books, his comforts, his recreations and 
everything that was his. In his loneliness, increasing it 
as dead sea fruit the pains of the thirsty, or as will-o’ 
wisps the perils of the lost, were moments when he 
yearned, most longingly, for some particular friend 
whose parts in his then particular mood exactly ap¬ 
pealed to him, and invariably that friend was on those 
occasions hopelessly remote. Similarly, very fond as 
he was of reading, with his books. Enormous longing 
to read a particular book came invariably when leagues 
and hours separted him from that book. And, as with 
his secretary, there went with these contingencies their 
corollaries: when he was with his friends he did not 
want his friends and was not entertained by his friends, 
and when he was among his books he had no inclination 
to read his books. 

An odd fellow, James. 

“ If I were the kind of person who says that kind of 
thing,” James used to reflect, “ I would say that nobody 
understands me. But I am not that kind of person. 
That kind of person is sorry for himself and feels that 
the blame for his plight rests on a world incapable of 
estimating him at his true worth. With me, not so. 
The world — apart from my painting, which it over¬ 
estimates — estimates me, personally, at my true worth, 
which is emptiness and futility; and I am not a bit 
sorry for myself, I am only very weary of myself and 
very dissatisfied with myself. I do not satisfy other 
people and that is why they do not satisfy me.” 


158 THE GRIM TEST 

An introspective fellow, James. 

“All the same — ” said James, and sighed; and 
would wish for his secretary and she was not; and 
would wish for a particular friend and he was not; 
and would desire a particular book and it was not; and 
on an occasion following would have his secretary and 
would be tongue-tied; and would meet his friend and 
would find him not what he had imagined him to be; 
and would be among his books and would desire none 
of his books. “ Why the dickens is it? ” said James. 
“ My fault, of course,” said James. 

“ All the same — ” said James, and groaned. 

A lonely fellow, James. 

But listen! When James thus said, “All the 
same —,” and when James, saying it, thus groaned or 
sighed, invariably there took place within James a 
roving or questing of the spirit which was to James in 
his loneliness as was the roving or questing of the dove 
to Noah in his Ark. The dove roamed the face of the 
waters in search of dry land for Noah; and his spirit 
roamed the face of his imagination in search of satis¬ 
faction for James. Noah was at last rewarded by a 
symbol of hope in the beak of the dove; and James — 
this is the funny part of the thing — not at last, but 
always, was rewarded by a symbol of hope in the beak 
of his spirit. The daily life of James, searching, found 
never solid satisfaction on which his heart could rest 
and with which his loneliness could be filled; but the 
spirit of James, questing, returned ever with assurance 
that somewhere, somehow, with some one, there was, 
there must be- 



THE GRIM TEST 


159 


“But where, but how, but whom?” said James. 
“ Rum,” said James. “ Nothing matters to me. That’s 
what the trouble is. Except my work, no thing and no 
person really and truly matters. 

“ All the same —,” said James, and sighed. 

A baffled fellow, James. 

But attend! This “ really and truly,” with which 
James affirmed or emphasized the emptiness of his life 
was not a mere expression; it was a mark or signal of 
the profundity of the introspectiveness of James. 
James did not merely think that nothing and nobody 
mattered to him; James knew it; and he knew it by 
application (especially to persons) of a test which, in 
his introspectiveness, he had formulated unto himself, 
and whereby, introspecting, he tested the true depth of 
his affections. 

This test was a grim, a harsh, almost a brutal test, 
and it was a test that few really nice people would, in 
the matter of their affections, care to employ. 

The test employed by James was “ I like So-and-so. 
I like So-and-so very much indeed. But how deeply 
does ‘very much indeed’ go? Would I care,” (this 
was the test) “ would I care, would I deeply and fright¬ 
fully care, if So-and-so died? ” 

The answer invariably was that, deeply and fright¬ 
fully, in the sense in which James meant deeply and 
frightfully, he would not care. ♦ 

Let a specific example be given. In a period when 
miserably for some months he had lain in a nethermost 
pit of his loneliness, he one day perceived a rope 
stretched down to him and looking up beheld at the 


160 THE GRIM TEST 

other end of the rope a girl whom he knew well, met 
frequently and who, by the casting down to him of this 
rope, might reasonably be supposed to be, well, more 
than a little interested in him. “ By golly! ” cried 
James (or words to that effect) “ By golly, I believe 
I could find in this girl all that for which my soul is 
anhungered. By golly, I believe I could! By golly, I 
will be in love with her! ” 

And with these words James clutched hold of the 
rope and, the girl immediately tautening it, suffered 
himself to be drawn up out of the pit. 

All might have gone well and this story never have 
been written, but unfortunately, the pit being deep and 
James (a weighty-minded fellow) uncommonly heavy, 
considerable time was occupied in the hauling up of 
James; and in the middle of it, James, spinning at the 
end of the rope like a bale of goods at the end of a 
crane, applied to the kindly girl (pulling and hauling 
for all she was worth) the grim, the harsh, the almost 
brutal test hereinbefore scheduled and described. 

“Am I in love with her?” propounded James to 
himself, spinning. “ / don’t know. Very well then, 
would I care if she died? ” 

Immediately the rope let him down with a run about 
six feet, and, “ I would be sorry,” said James hur¬ 
riedly, “ very, very, sorry.” The rope steadied again, 
so James repeated it: “Very, very sorry,” repeated 
James. 

“But would I care?” said James again presently, 
“really and truly care, as I cared, most poignantly, 


THE GRIM TEST 161 

when deaths occurred in my family circle? Would I 
care like that ? ” 

The answer was flat. He would not care like that. 

Very alarming tremors began to take place in the 
rope; but James, an introspective fellow, stubbornly 
pursued his introspection. If I heard of her death/’ 
said James, “ would I go without my meals? Would I 
be thrown out of the stride of my work at my easel? 
Would her death distaste for me one single spoonful 
of my dinner, or lose for me one single morning of 
my work ? ” 

“ No,” said James, “ it would not. Obviously, then, 
I am not in love with her. No.” 

Whereupon the rope broke and James with a sick¬ 
ening thud was returned to the bottom of the pit. 

“ Nothing matters 'to me,” said James, bruised. 
“ That’s what it is with me: nothing really and truly 
matters. All the same—,” said James, and sighed. 

II 

Now James, though he has been shown as declaring 
that nothing and nobody really and truly mattered to 
him, has also been reported as adding: “ except my 
work.” His work mattered very much to James, and, 
painting one day a picture in which ribbons were worn 
by one of his models, he must needs himself go to a 
ribbon shop to buy the ribbons. A painter to whom 
his work mattered less would have suffered the model 
to buy the ribbons. Not so James and not thus had 
moderate wealth and considerable fame come to James. 


THE GRIM TEST 


162 

James, fuming at the interruption, but determined to 
have only the exact shades of ribbon that only himself 
could choose, went one day to the ribbon counter of 
this shop (one of those enormous emporiums that dis¬ 
dain to call themselves shops) and there fussed enough 
to drive a girl mad over choosing the ribbons that he 
desired. I should say that if he caused to be got down 
for him a yard of ribbon, he caused to be got down for 
him a mile, and I should say, and have already said, 
that he fussed, fumed and finicked enough to drive 
mad the girl who attended upon him. 

Did it drive her mad? No. It did not in the least 
discompose or ruffle her. She was as sweet of dis¬ 
position as she was lovely of countenance. She was 
Elsie. 

Now then! 

James at last concluded his purchases, realised that 
he had inordinately fussed over them, and a pleasant, 
courteous fellow when not at work or not in the depths 
of the pit where normally he lived, apologised for the 
inordinate fuss that he had made. 

“ I’m afraid I have been a most awful nuisance,” 
said James. 

“ Oh, really, no,” said Elsie. 

“ I have, though,” said James, and looking at Elsie 
for the first time (as it were) saw that she was comely 
and stared upon her. 

“ You haven’t indeed,” declared Elsie. 

“ I have though,” repeated James, staring. 

“ Oh, really, no,” repeated Elsie, smiling. “ Indeed 
not.” 


THE GRIM TEST 163 

“ I wanted the ribbons for a particular purpose,” said 
James, staring. 

“ Oh, I could see that,” said Elsie and tinkled ever 
so prettily the silver bell that was her laugh. 

The tinkle of a bell naturally attracts the attention 
to the place of its tinkling, and the tinkling of this 
bell that was the laugh of Elsie attracted the attention 
of James to a new aspect of the comeliness of Elsie at 
which also James stared. The effect of this aspect upon 
the senses of James very much annoyed James. It dis¬ 
commoded or inhibited the articulatory processes of 
James and he found his tongue heavy within his mouth 
and incapable of speech. 

James, therefore, very lamely, laughed. 

“Ha, ha,” laughed James, lamely; and his tongue 
being in no way loosened, but indeed heavier than be¬ 
fore, proceeded lamely to remove himself. 

“ You’ve forgotten your parcel,” cried Elsie. 

“Good lord!” cried James; and James, recovering 
the parcel, and viewing the comeliness of Elsie as it 
were spread across the entire extent of the shop in a 
haze, mist or shimmer, in appalling confusion left the 
shop. 

“ Dash! ” said James. 

Four days after this day, the fourth day being the 
Sabbath, James, mounting to the outside of a motor- 
bus, found but one seat vacant thereon and, seating 
himself on this seat, found that the passenger beside 
him was Elsie. 

“ Hull-o/” said James. 

The red roses on the face of Elsie overcame and 


THE GRIM TEST 


164 

spread above the cream roses and the cream roses dis¬ 
solved or disappeared into the red roses. 

“ Hull-afternoon,” said Elsie, crushing the spon¬ 
taneity of “ Hullo ” beneath the decorum of “ Good 
afternoon.” 

Fifteen minutes after this minute, the fifteenth min¬ 
ute being the seventeenth minute past four, post me¬ 
ridian, James discovered himself to be walking in 
Hyde Park with Elsie. “ Discovered himself ” is cor¬ 
rect; for how or by what means or by what conversa¬ 
tional stages he had been transferred from the bus 
beside Elsie to Hyde Park beside Elsie, James could 
not possibly have told. Recovering from the daze or 
fog in which these processes must have been con¬ 
ducted, and discovering himself pacing beside her, and 
realising, on making the discovery, how very astound¬ 
ing it was that he should be pacing beside her, “ You 
know,” said James, “ this is a most extraordinary 
thing for me to be doing. Eve never done a thing 
like this in my life before.” 

“ Nor I,” said Elsie. “ Isn’t it funny? ” 

“ By Jove, it is funny,” said James seriously. 

A serious fellow, James. 

These were, though James did not know it, almost 
the first words they had exchanged since entering the 
park, and in silence for rather more than a quarter of 
a mile they debated, in their several ways, the funniness 
on which they had found themselves in agreement. 

“ But you said,” then said James, taking up the con¬ 
versation although the last of it was more than a 
quarter of a mile behind them, “ but you said that 


THE GRIM TEST 165 

you walk here every Sunday and every Saturday 
afternoon? ” 

“ Yes, but by myself,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

Three hundred and thirty-two yards farther, “ Not 
with any one,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

These “Ah’s” of James were uttered very pro¬ 
foundly and weightily and were intended by James to 
be charged with enormous meaning, as indeed they must 
have been, for James, in this most remarkable situation 
in which he found himself, was thinking enormously 
and “ Ah,” pronounced at long intervals, was almost 
the sole articulation by which James, throughout the 
afternoon, discharged or relieved the accumulation of 
thoughts thus amassed. Nor were the contributions 
of Elsie to the debate of much greater dimension. The 
whole conversation between James and Elsie during 
their solemn circumnavigation of the park, including 
their farewell at its termination and the suggestion of 
James, approved by Elsie, that the circumnavigation 
might be repeated on the following Saturday afternoon, 
could have been written on a half-sheet of notepaper. 
Neither, it will be remembered, had ever done this 
kind of thing before and each, it surely follows, did it 
for the first time very slowly and awkwardly. 

Especially James. 

They did it, however, a second, third, fourth and 
fifth time with a loquacity but little increased; but 
the very curious thing is that the less they talked and 
the more they walked the more were their meetings 


166 


THE GRIM TEST 


looked forward to by James, and the more soothed, re¬ 
freshed, healed and elevated was the soul brought away 
and returned to his home by James. 

This, though it immensely comforted James, pro¬ 
foundly puzzled James. 

“ It isn’t as though,” reflected James, “ we ever said 
a thing. What the dickens can it be, then? ” 

A newly baffled fellow, James. 

“ I hope you don’t mind my not talking?” said 
James, in the course of one walking, to Elsie. 

“ Not a bit,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

And on the occasion of the next walking, “ As I 
was saying about not talking,” said James; “it’s like 
this with me. I like being with you, in fact I seem 
to like it better than anything I know. But what I like 
is just being with you and feeling I needn’t talk, and 
that you don’t mind if I don’t talk. Always when I’m 
with anyone I feel that I’ve got to talk, and I never 
can talk, and the thing is simply an agony to me. It’s 
difficult to understand, and I never can make any one 
understand it. I do hope,” concluded James, exhausted, 
“ that you understand ? ” 

“ I understand perfectly,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

And, returning home that night, “ That girl under¬ 
stands me,” said James. 

This solved for James the puzzlement of James. 

It also opened for James two fields, the one of specu¬ 
lation, the other of experimentation, in each of which 
James very interestedly browsed. 


THE GRIM TEST 


167 

In the first field, that of speculation, the herbage 
upon which James browsed or speculated was of the 
following kind. “ This girl,” reflected James, brows¬ 
ing, “ delights my eye and soothes, pleases, comforts 
and altogether satisfies my mind. Much more than all 
this, she understands me. Am I,” inquired of himself 
James, “ in love with her?” 

“ Well, there’s only one way,” said James, “ of de¬ 
ciding that ”; and he reached out for his test and 
applied it. 

“ Would I care,” said James, applying his test, 
“ really and truly and deeply and poignantly care, if 
she died? If I went to the park to-morrow and learnt 
that she was dead and that I never again should see 
her, I should be sorry; yes, by Jove, I would indeed 
be most frightfully sorry, but would I, would I go with¬ 
out my meals, would I chuck my work, would I feel that 
for me the end of the world had come and that I de¬ 
sired never again to eat, to work, or take my sleep? 
Now then, would I?” 

“ No,” said James. “ I would not.” 

“ Obviously,” said James, “ I am not in love with 
her.” 

“ Dash it! ” said James, and came out of the field 
of speculation and turned him into the field whose 
herbage was experimentation. 

Here James browsed very strangely indeed. “ I 
am not in love,” browsed James, “ and it is quite clear 
to me that at this rate I never shall be in love. This,” 
browsed James, “ is very grievous to me. It is very 
grievous to me because it denies me a bliss which I can 


THE GRIM TEST 


168 

most ardently imagine but which, because I cannot 
really and truly love, I can by no means, curse me, 
contrive. 

“ But can I,” browsed James, “ by no means con¬ 
trive it? I imagine subjects for my paintings and 
these, on my canvases, I contrive; why, imagining 
the bliss of love, should not I by artifice contrive it? 
The reason,” browsed James, “ is because, whereas in 
my painting the creatures of my imagination under¬ 
stand me and gladly suffer me to work upon them my 
artifice, in this matter of imagining myself in love there 
is required a living personage who could not possibly 
understand me and could not, therefore — 

“ But wait/’ browsed James. “ Elsie, who delights 
my eye and satisfies my mind, does understand me. 
Now, if I were to explain to her— By golly,” said 
James, and lifted his head from his browsing and fixed 
his eye meditatively upon the horizon and reflectively 
chewed the cud, “ By golly,” said James, “ I believe 
she would understand. . . .” 

Now watch James. 

James, in all this time, had never communicated to 
Elsie his any other name than James, nor communicated 
to her any fact of or pertaining to his mode of life, 
his place in the scheme of society or the means by which 
he earned unto himself his daily bread; nor (and this 
is perhaps even more remarkable) had he associated 
with her anywhere but in the park, or vouchsafed unto 
her any entertainment such as a theatre or any refresh¬ 
ment such as a box of chocolates or a cup of tea. It 
was the unique charm (to James) of Elsie that she was 


THE GRIM TEST 


169 

perfectly content (as was he sublimely content) merely 
to meet him and to pace with him in, for the most part, 
silence. 

Now, however, coming to her on a day following 
his browsing in the field of experimentation, James, 
in order to propound unto her his experiment, opened 
a first stage of it by addressing to her the following 
words. 

“ There’s a thing that I’ve been thinking about,” said 
James, “ and it is that I believe — I’ve never been 
about like this with any one before so I don’t know, 
but, as I say, I believe — I believe we ought to go and 
have some tea somewhere together. Oughtn’t we ? ” 

“ Oh, I’d love to,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James; and not more than two hundred 
yards further on sought her help in the new and^un fore¬ 
seen difficulties by this “ Ah ” expressed. 

“ Where? ” said James. 

“ Well, where ? ” said Elsie. 

Beginning with the Ritz and descending by stages 
to a coffee-stall known unto him in Camden Town, 
there passed through the imagination of James about 
two dozen houses of refreshment, but in none of them 
could James, unaccustomed to this kind of thing, 
imagine himself with Elsie. Ten minutes having passed 
in this desolating review, “ I tell you what wouldn’t be 
bad,” said James, “ I’ve got the run of a man’s studio 
not far from here where sometimes I go for tea, and 
where they give you not half a bad tea. What about 
that?” 


170 


THE GRIM TEST 


“ Oh, that would be lovely. ” said Elsie. “ Would 
he mind though, your friend ? ” 

“ Not a bit,” said James, and they proceeded silent 
through the park to the main road, and thence to the 
house of James and to the studio attached to the house 
of James. 

With his key James opened the private door of the 
studio and, as was to be expected, for it was a very 
comfortably furnished and tastefully appointed studio, 
Elsie expressed herself as enraptured with it. 

“ Oh, it’s lovely! ” cried Elsie, “ it’s perfectly ador¬ 
able ; I’ve never imagined such a place! ” 

“ Not bad,” said James. 

“ And are those,” cried Elsie, looking round, “ your 
friend’s pictures ? ” She moved, obviously entranced, 
from canvas to canvas, some propped against the walls, 
some hanging, one or two on easels. “ Why, they’re 
wonderful, they’re wonderful! ” she cried. 

“ Not bad,” said James, fidgeting. He had over¬ 
looked, in inviting Elsie to the studio, the possibilities 
now afoot, and the possibilities now afoot disquieted 
him and alarmed him. 

Elsie from the end of the studio turned very slowly 
towards James. She had taken root before a very 
large painting in a very noble frame, and she turned 
towards James as though she turned with difficulty 
on the root that she had taken. “Is that one of your 
friend’s pictures ? ” asked Elsie. 

“ I think so,” said James, “ I believe so. Oh, yes, it 
would be.” 

“ Why, I saw it when it was on exhibition! ” said 


THE GRIM TEST 


171 

Elsie. “ I saw it three times. I would have seen it 
three hundred, if I could have afforded it. Is your 
friend James Prince, the James Prince? ” 

This enormously discomforted James. 

“ Eh? ” said James. 

“ The James Prince?” said Elsie. 

At that moment there entered the studio a man¬ 
servant bearing upon a silver tray the materials of a 
singularly delectable tea. 

“Ah, here’s the tea!” cried James, relieved; and, 
fussing with the teapot, “ I believe,” said James, “ that 
is his name. Get out!” said James (this was in a 
hoarse whisper to the manservant, who, accustomed to 
James, got out). 

“You believe it is?” cried Elsie, gazing in great 
amazement at the richness and prodigality of the tea- 
tray, but regarding with much greater amazement the 
discovery which now, to the great embarrassment of 
James, she desired James to elucidate. “You believe it 
is? But you must know.” 

“ Well, as a matter of fact, it is” said James. “ Yes, 
he is James Prince. At least that’s his name” said 
James, as if casting doubt either on the right of the 
personality to the name or on the right of the name 
to the personality. 

Elsie, however, to the chagrin of James, paid no at¬ 
tention to this sinister and mysterious inflexion. “ But 
I think he is perfectly glorious! ” cried Elsie. 

“ Do you? ” said James, pleased. 

“ I think he is the most glorious painter that ever 
lived! ” said Elsie. 


172 


THE GRIM TEST 


“ Oh, I shouldn’t say that,” said James deprecatingly. 

“ But I do! ” cried Elsie. “ I’ve got a print of that 
picture hanging on my wall, and it’s so wonderful to 
me that I can’t bear to have any other pictures beside 
it, so I took them all down.” 

“ Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” said James. 

“ I had to,” cried Elsie. “ But you know him ? You 
mean to say he is a friend of yours! I can’t believe it.” 

An enormous effort was made by James to extricate 
himself from the terrible and unforeseen depths in 
which he found himself plunged. " Don't believe it,” 
said James, making the enormous effort. “ Look here, 
the fact of the matter is, I’ve rather led you astray over 
this business. This chap Prince isn’t exactly a friend 
of mine. No, I can’t possibly call him a friend ” 
(which, having regard to his normal disgruntlement 
with his own personality, James indeed could not do). 

“ But he lets you come as you like into his studio,” 
persisted Elsie, “ and have tea, and all that. Why he 
must be your friend! ” 

“ The fact of it is,” said James, desperately search-, 
ing for some fiction that could be presented as fact, 
“ the fact of it is that I — I help him.” 

“ Then are you,” cried Elsie, “ are you a painter? ” 

James, like a bolted rabbit in a net making futile 
bounds where no bounds were to be made, made a futile 
bound. “ Not that kind of painter,” said James. 

“ But you paint pictures? ” 

“ Railings,” said James, firmly, “ railings and 
houses.” 

It was exactly characteristic of the charm of Elsie 


THE GRIM TEST 


173 


in the mind of James that this statement, though con¬ 
ceivably a disappointment to Elsie, appeared not in 
the least to diminish the pleasure that Elsie seemed 
to find in the company of James. 

“ Really? ” said Elsie. 

“ Absolutely,” said James. 

“ Well, that’s quite all right,” said Elsie, “ and 
awfully nice. There’s no one I love to see at work more 
than painters, brightening up places as they do. But, 
if you paint railings and that, I don’t see what sort of 
help you can be to a man like James Prince.” 

James, to his great relief, was here able to set his 
feet on firm and true ground. If there were one su¬ 
preme law in the studio of James, it was that none 
other than James was permitted to touch the painting 
materials of James. “ I wash his brushes for him,” 
said James, “ and clean his palettes, and all that sort of 
thing.” 

“ I see” said Elsie, and nodded and snuggled herself 
into a great armchair and bit largely with perfect teeth 
into a golden muffin. 

James, at these words and particularly at the tone 
of the words, as also at the nod, the snuggling and the 
bite, was ravished. 

“ This girl,” said James to himself, ravished, “ un¬ 
derstands me. All the same,” said James to himself, 
“ if she were to die in that very chair — ” 

And a sigh was sighed by James. 

Elsie set down the cup she had raised and gazed very 
beautifully at James. “ You’re not unhappy, are you? ” 
said Elsie. 


THE GRIM TEST 


174 

“ Oh, no,” said James, but hopelessly. 

“ But you sighed? ” 

“ Oh, I just sighed,” said James. 

“ I believe I know why you sighed,” said Elsie. 

James sat up to full attention. “ My goodness, I 
hope you don’t,” cried James; and he hoped it, as may 
be conjectured, very sincerely. 

“ I think you sighed,” said Elsie, speaking with what 
sounded to the ears of James as an exquisite softness, 
“at the sight of all this wealth,” she indicated with 
what was considered by James an exquisite gesture the 
sumptuous apartment in which they sat, “ of all this 
comfort. You shouldn’t,” said Elsie; “you needn’t.” 

“ That’s true,” said James. 

“Of course it is,” said Elsie brightly. “ Money 
doesn’t necessarily mean happiness.” 

“ I believe you,” said James, which he did; and he 
then said, “ What’s your idea of happiness? ” 

The red roses among the cream roses very slightly 
deepened. “ I couldn’t tell you that,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

A considerable silence followed this; then, “ But I 
should like to know,” said James. 

The red roses engulfed the cream roses. “ I 
couldn’t,” said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

In a tender voice, “ Of course,” said Elsie, “ if you 
are poor like we are — you don’t get paid very well 
for painting railings, do you? ” 

“ I get practically nothing,” said James with great 
truth, “ for painting railings.” 


THE GRIM TEST 


175 


“ I thought not,” said Elsie. “Of course if you 
are poor like we are it would undoubtedly be most 
awfully nice to be rich.” 

“ Ah,” said James. 

Of all the “ Ah’s ” ever uttered by James, and they 
were many, no Ah was charged with such profundity of 
thought as this Ah. James, by the words to which this 
Ah responded, was given a footing from the first stage 
of his experiment (namely the entertainment of Elsie 
to tea) to the second stage of his experiment, namely 
the introduction of the experiment to Elsie; and the 
Ah was the heavy and purposeful tread with which 
James trod from the one stage to the other stage. 

“ Ah,” said James again. “ Look here, I tell you 
what. Let’s pretend that we are rich. Let’s pretend 
that we are here because all this belongs to us.” 

“ Oh, let’s! ” cried Elsie. 

“ Good,” said James, pleased to find — as yet — no 
signs of wobbling on the second stage. “ Do you 
mind,” said James, testing for any as yet undeveloped 
wobbling, “ do you mind pretending it in my way ? ” 

“ Not a bit! ” cried Elsie. “ Of course in your way. 
What is your way? ” 

“ Well, my way,” said James — “ you’ve probably 
seen by now that I’m a quiet sort of chap who likes 
things in a quiet sort of way — my way of pretending 
all this belongs to us is not to sit up and gas about it 
and say how nice it is, but just to sit here and munch 
our tea and warm our toes and, without saying any¬ 
thing, just imagine that it is ours and that there’s no 
excitement about it because it simply is ours.” 


THE GRIM TEST 


176 

“ Sort of sit and dream it ? ” asked Elsie. 

“ Absolutely,” said James; and added apologetically, 
“It’s just my way, you know.” 

“ You know, I believe I understand your ways,” said 
Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

For a quarter of an hour in silence this dream — that 
all this belonged to them —was enormously enjoyed 
by James. Then said James, “ There’s just one 
thing — ” 

He stopped. He had raised his eyes from the fire 
whereon blissfully they had rested, and what he saw 
upon the face of Elsie very much astonished him. She 
was lying back in her deep armchair; her eyes were 
closed and there was, immediately about and beneath 
her eyelashes — her remarkably long eyelashes — a 
dampness,* a welling of moisture, in fact a tear. 

“ I say,” said James, astonished, “ you’re not crying, 
are you ? ” 

Elsie sat up quickly. “ Good gracious, no! ” cried 
Elsie. She applied to each eye a handkerchief, the 
dimensions of which appeared to James insufficient for 
the absorption of more than a single tear, and blinked 
and smiled at James, “ I expect it’s the fire,” said 
Elsie. 

“ It doesn’t do that to my eyes,” said James. 

“ It does to mine,” said Elsie. “ I’ve noticed it.” 

“ Ah,” said James. 

“ All the same,” said Elsie, “ if I had been crying, 
in fact perhaps in a way I was, it would have been ” — 
there occurred in her voice the very tiniest catch or 


THE GRIM TEST 


177 


break — “ it would have been crying with happiness.” 

“ With happiness? ” questioned James. 

“ Oh, happiness,” affirmed Elsie. “ You’ve no idea 
how I’m simply loving this — this imagining.” 

“Are you?” said James. 

A small sigh was sighed by Elsie and a new snuggle 
was snuggled by Elsie. “ Oh, loving it! ” she sighed. 

Then spake James robustly. 

“ I’m not,” said James. 

“ You’re not! ” cried Elsie, exquisite concern of her 
voice most exquisitely matching the lovely concern of 
her face. “ Oh, I am sorry. Oh, do tell me why.” 

“ I’m going to,” said James. “ I’m imagining that 
all this belongs to us and it’s the happiest feeling I’ve 
had in months, in years. But what I want also to 
imagine in order to complete the happiness, is that 
as all this belongs to us so each of us belongs to the 
other. I want to imagine that you belong to me and 
that I belong to you. Do you mind if I imagine that ? ” 

“ Not a bit! ” said Elsie quite simply. 

“ Thanks most awfully,” said James. “ Absolutely 
imaginary, of course; not in the least real.” 

“ Oh, absolutely,” said Elsie. 

“ In fact you needn’t imagine it at all, if you don’t 
like,” said James. 

“ Oh, I quite see that,” said Elsie. 

“ Well, that’s simply splendid,” said James, extend¬ 
ing his legs to the fire and inclining his back to the 
cushions. “ Rum idea of mine, I’m afraid.” 

“ Not a bit,” said Elsie. 

“ Just my way, you know,” said James. 


i;8 THE GRIM TEST 

“I do believe I perfectly understand your ways,” 
said Elsie. 

“ Ah,” said James. 

There passed then for James, or rather in the imagi¬ 
nation of James, which was the quality of James by 
far the most highly developed, incomparably the happi¬ 
est half-hour that James had ever passed. He watched, 
as he reclined, the lovely creature who sat over against 
him, and in his imagination he bathed in the lovely 
thought that she belonged to him and he to her, and 
that equally to the twain of them belonged everything 
that he possessed. This, for ages as it seemed to James, 
had been the yearning desire of his life; it never could 
be fulfilled because always it was denied him by the 
test which proved to him that no person and no thing 
(except his work) ever really mattered to him; lo! by 
the beautiful understanding of Elsie it was, in his 
imagination, fulfilled, pressed down and running over. 
James was happy. 

The half-hour passed; the time arrived (Elsie said) 
for her to go. Now propounded James the experiment 
to which all this, though blissful, had but been the trial 
or induction. 

James having stated for his part, and Elsie having 
agreed for her part, that the afternoon had been the 
most blissful ever known, “ Now,” propounded James, 
“ I want to suggest to you something like this that we 
have been enjoying only more so. Very much more 
so,” said James. 

“ Oh yes,” said Elsie. 

“ You’ll think me rum,” said James, “and unques- 


THE GRIM TEST 


179 

tionably I am rum, or rather, as I call it, and as un¬ 
doubtedly it is, hopelessly unsatisfactory. But what I 
want most awfully is to be in love.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Elsie. 

“ And the dickens, the extraordinary dickens of it 
is,” said James, “ that I can’t get in love.” 

“ 1 see,” said Elsie. 

(She said it so beautifully, so simply, and so under- 
standingly, that “ No girl like this has ever before been 
created,” reflected James. “ All the same — ” reflected 
James, and inwardly sighed.) 

“ Well, the only thing I can do,” continued James, 
“ is to be in love by imagination.” 

“ / see,” said Elsie. 

“Splendid!” said James, and further continued. 
“ Now this afternoon, thanks to your most awfully de¬ 
cent understanding, -I have been by imagination in love 
and absolutely heavenly it’s been. But — this is the 
point — only passively in love. Now what I want 
most awfully is to be actively in love; not only, that is 
to say, to be in love, but to make love.” 

“ I see,” said Elsie. 

“ By Jove, you’re simply wonderful,” said James, 
“ you really are. Well, will you then,” continued 
James, “permit me for a whole day—I thought one 
Sunday away by the sea somewhere for the day — to 
make love to you ? ” 

Elsie turned her head away for a moment (to look 
at something I suppose: I am sorry only to be able 
to tell this story through the personality of James) and 
then turned it back and nodded it. 


i8o 


THE GRIM TEST 


“ You’re marvellous,” said James, “ you really are. 
By golly, we’ll do it then. Next Sunday? ” 

More nods. 

“ Yes, marvellous,” said James; “ the most wonder¬ 
ful creature that ever was created.” 

Some practical discussion followed, as to the Some- 
where-by-the-Sea where the day should be spent, and as 
to the ability of James, on a painter’s wages, to afford 
the excursion (“I shall draw five pounds out of the 
Savings Bank,” said James. “ I’ve wanted this for 
years and years, and now it’s actually come I don’t see 
why I shouldn’t spend some money on myself for once 
and do the thing properly ”) and then James, with last 
words, separated from Elsie. 

“ What do you suppose,” inquired James, opening 
the last words, “ your attitude will be ? I mean to say, 
shall you pretend, imagine, that you are in love with 
me? ” 

Elsie, as before and no doubt for the same reason, 
averted her head for a moment and then returning it 
stated that she thought perhaps she had better. “ It 
would make it more real for you, wouldn’t it?” said 
Elsie. 

“ It most certainly would,” said James. 

“ Well, I will, then,” said Elsie. 

“ You are a splendid creature! ” said James. 

“ Not a bit,” said Elsie. “ I think I’ll go now,” and 
she went, rather suddenly. 

Warning is now given that, in half a minute, the 
story takes a turn deeply serious. 


THE GRIM TEST 


181 


III 

“ Now/' said James, as, Sunday arrived, the train 
began to move, “ before we begin, let’s just run over 
this and see that we know exactly where we are.” 
(They were in a first-class carriage which James, 
secretly, had reserved, but James meant more than 
that.) “ Where we are is that we’re just engaged and 
this is our first day alone together since our engage¬ 
ment, and we simply — we simply love. But it’s abso¬ 
lutely understood between us that in actual fact we 
don’t love at all, not a bit, and that the whole thing is 
simply pretending. It’s all to seem real, perfectly, won¬ 
derfully real, but really it isn’t real at all. That all 
right? ” 

“ Quite,” said Elsie softly. 

“ I say,” said James noticing the softness, “ you’re 
rather quiet this morning, aren’t you? Not feeling 
rotten or anything, are you? ” 

Elsie looked out of the window. “ No,” said Elsie, 
looking out. 

“ Good,” said James. “ Well, I vote we start then, 
shall we?” 

She gave, her head averted yet, a sound that seemed 
to be of agreement. 

“ Do you mind,” said James, “ if I put my arm 
around you ? ” 

She gave again that sound. 

James put his arm about her. “ I rather think,” said 
James, “ it’s the kind of thing one would do, in the cir¬ 
cumstances.” 


THE GRIM TEST 


182 

Her body within his arm was stiff and did not yield. 
She said, and her voice was as if her throat required 
to be cleared, “ It’s not real, is it? ” 

“ Absolutely not,” said James. 

She suddenly yielded her body to James and she was 
completely within the embrace of James and her head 
was on his shoulder and her eyes were upturned to him. 
“ That’s all right then,” she said, and she seemed to 
James yet a degree more to yield to him within his 
arm and she closed her eyes and there was some glis¬ 
tening stuff upon her lashes, and she yielded to him yet 
a further degree. 

“ I say, this is jolly fine, you know,” said James. 

She sighed. 

‘‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to start,” said 
James. 

She opened her eyes and spoke to him. “ Before you 
start ” — her voice had always been singularly beauti¬ 
ful to James, but it had now a note that was entirely 
new and infinitely more beautiful, a note very full yet 
very low — “ Before you start,” she said, “there’s one 
thing I’d like you to know because I think it will make 
your imagining all the more real to you. It’s this; that 
if you for ever so long have wanted to be in love, to 
make love to some one, oh, so have I, all my life, wanted 
to be loved! ” 

“By golly,” said James, “have you though?” 

“Oh, most frightfully! Oh, just as you, you’re a 
man, have wanted to make love, so I, I’m a woman, 
have wanted, oh wanted, to be loved.” 

“ My goodness! ” said James. 


THE GRIM TEST 183 

“ Oh, wanted to be! So you see, what I wanted to 
tell you is this; that you needn’t think, and so perhaps 
out of consideration for me lose some of your happi¬ 
ness in this, you needn’t think I’m not enjoying this 
pretending just as much as you. I am. Oh, just as 
much. You wanted it and you asked me to help and 
it just happened that I wanted it too, most frightfully.” 

“ By Jove,” said James, “ that is funny.” 

“ I thought it would make it better for you to know 
that.” 

“ It does,” said James. “ By Jove, now I can start.” 

James then started. 

Now the story takes that turn, deeply serious, of 
which warning has been given. 

The day spent at Somewhere-by-Sea by James and 
Elsie is perfectly described by a single word: bliss¬ 
ful. Blissful is the word for it because it was done to 
pattern and the pattern was the blissful pattern as 
definitely dedicated to lovers as is the path from the 
altar to the church door. The sun shone and the birds 
sang and the waves murmured; and first the two strolled 
hand in hand (when unperceived) along the downs 
above the sea; and then lay down upon the cliffs; and 
then were hungry; and then had lunch; and then were 
hand in hand again; and then had tea; and then again 
were strolling; oh, patterned way! Oh, blissful pat¬ 
tern ! 

They didn’t — as it turned out — talk love. James 
simply imagined that he was in love with Elsie and he 
knew (because she told him so) that in the imagination 
of Elsie he was loved by Elsie, and all he had to do, 


THE GRIM TEST 


184 

and all he did do, was to keep on imagining it and lux¬ 
uriating in it. As to talking love, there was made 
indeed by James the discovery that for the expression 
of the state of being in love, of loving, there are but 
three words. That the whole range and compass of 
the native tongue suffers but three words to the expres¬ 
sion of that but for which the entire race, and language 
with it, would perish and disappear, is a profound and 
moving thought; and James, thinking it, profoundly 
was moved by it and communicated it to Elsie. “ And 
that being so,” said James, “ I think I had better say 
the three words, if you don’t mind ” ; and said them. 

“ Now you,” said James. “ Not if you’d rather not, 
of course; but I think you’d better.” 

She asked him gently: “ It isn’t real? ” 

“ Absolutely not,” said James. 

She told him, scarcely to be heard, “ I love you.” 

“ This is lovely,” said James. 

She echoed “ Lovely.” 

Echo! No, not the echo’s note was in her voice; 
rather the stir that through the perfect silence of a 
forest sometimes moves; something as strange as that, 
something akin as that to a volition mysterious, in¬ 
tangible, not to be perceived. He noticed it whenever 
“ It isn’t real? ” she asked. “ It isn’t real? ” when he 
had gone to place his arm about her; “ It isn’t real ? ” 
when she must hear, and then must say, the words of 
love; “ It isn’t real ? ” when on the cliffs he had sug¬ 
gested holding hands; “It isn’t real?” when- 

This was when remained to them a final hour before 
the road to the station must be taken. Night owned the 



THE GRIM TEST 


185 

hour and hung out all her lamps to jewel it for them. 
They were upon the beach, seated with backs against 
the cliff, and with the sea, returning night her lamps, 
at melody before them. They had been thus two hours, 
both of dusk. They hadn’t spoken much. 

Night drew the hour on the chain that she had had 
from day and passed to day, thence to eternity. James 
stirred and stretched his wrist out from his cuff and 
saw his watch; his other hand held both of Elsie’s 
hands. 

“ We’ll have to move,” said James. 

She did not answer. 

“ There’s a last thing,” said James. “ I rather think 
it’s the most important thing of all. We’ve done this 
business so frightfully well that I rather think we 
oughtn’t to leave it out. I mean for me to kiss you.” 

She did not answer. 

“ Of course, if you think it’s going a bit too far— ” 
said James. 

He thought he felt her shiver. “ Not cold are 
you?” said James. “We’ll be walking in a minute. 
Well, what about this kissing idea?” He took his 
hand from her hands and put his arm about her. “ I 
do hope you aren’t cold,” he said. 

Her voice, scarcely to be heard, was just heard by 
James, “If it is what you’d like.” 

“ Well, I certainly would,” said James. He bent his 
head to hers. “ I must say it’s most awfully nice of 
you.” 

But for his face so close to hers he had not heard 
her, “ It isn’t real? ” 


186 


THE GRIM TEST 


“ Not a bit,” said James. 

She turned her face to his; to hers his lips de¬ 
scended. She breathed, “ Oh, is this real ? ” 

His eyes and just the slightest movement of his head 
assured her no. She closed her eyes. He kissed her. 

After quite a little while, “ By Jove, it wanted that,” 
said James; and after yet a little while, “ Well, well! ” 
said James, and drew his arm from round her and got 
upon his feet and stretched himself and looked upon 
the sea; and it occurred to James, looking upon the sea, 

stretching himself, that the sea had-; and upon 

this thought James turned his head between his stretch¬ 
ing arms and looked towards the way that they had 
come here; and James, looking, very slowly relaxed his 
arms and rather strangely said, “I say— !” and 
turned and took some hurried steps along the way that 
they had come. 

The cliff turned seawards at the point where James 
concluded his steps, and James, seeing what he saw, 
and for a rather dreadful moment gazing upon it, then 
retraced his steps and went past Elsie and very hur¬ 
riedly along until, which was a distance very brief, he 
could again no farther go. Here also James saw what 
at the other extremity of his paces he had seen. 

Alarm sprang from her couch within the citadel of 
James, and ran with frightening feet upon the flesh of 
James, and flew her pallid signal in the cheek of James, 
and on the drums of all his pulses drummed a roll. 

His thought was “ Elsie! ” 

He went back to her. She was not sitting as he had 
left her; she was lying upon the shingle, one arm out- 



THE GRIM TEST 187 

stretched, her face turned down upon it. There was an 
extraordinary desolation in her pose. 

He had intended to say, “ I say, we’re cut off. I 
believe we’re cut off! ” 

Those were the words he had shaped for her; but 
immediately upon his realisation of her peril, there was 
a swift and terrible thought of her that swept away 
those words. This was the thought: It was in dread¬ 
ful possibility she was to die! 

In hours drawn away upon time’s chain beyond recall 
he had imagined, as his test, his feelings were death to 
take her; and his feelings had nothing responded to 
the test. Not imagination but death’s self now set her 
death before him; and there was a strange and an 
enormous poignancy that flooded him and swept away 
from him the words he would have spoken; and the 
words he said, returned to her where she lay and 
standing over her, were her name, poignantly cried: 

‘‘Elsie! Elsie!” 

He went on his knees and he touched her; and he 
had a sense as of enormous power in his body; and 
of his power a compulsion, as it were an instinct whose 
authority until it should be fulfilled was a torment, to 
draw her within the power that was his and there en¬ 
compass her against the dissolution that was advancing 
upon her. 

There was a sovereignty in his arms; and as his 
arms commanded her and turned her face to his, they 
must have communicated to her the sovereignty that 
was theirs. She said, “ Oh, is this real? ” 


188 THE GRIM TEST 

He drew her to his breast. “ Real, real, my own, 
my darling! ” 

* * * * * 

Soon — but a long time lived between — they were 
upon the final margin of the shore, their backs against 
the cliff. He had examined every prospect of escape, 
of bringing rescue, and there was no avail. He turned 
and a last time scanned the precipitous wall against 
which they stood. To a point beyond their efforts it 
ran up sheer; above that point, but just too far above, 
it sloped away, climbing in wooded banks. Along its 
face, almost as high as he could reach, there showed 
the line that was high-water mark. 

He said to her, “ When the time comes, I will take 
you in my arms, and as long as I can, I will hold you 
as high as I can.” 

She said, “ When the time comes, dear, just hold 
me face to face.” 

The ripple of a wave ran thinly to them, and spread 
about his shoes. At its advance he caught her up, and 
with a little laugh said, “ Not to let your darling feet 
get wet! ” 

Soon, “ Are you afraid? ” he said. 

She had her arms about his neck, “ Not afraid. Do 
you remember what I told you in the train that all my 
life I’ve wanted to be loved before I die? Tell me 
again I am.” 

He told her. 

She said, “ Afraid ? Oh, happy !*” 

“ There, I am holding you,” he said, “ your lovely 
and beloved face to mine.” 


THE GRIM TEST 


189 


She sighed. “ Oh, say again it’s real! ” 

“ Real into what awaits us; real beyond.” 

She murmured, “ Happy! ” 

* * * * * 

A very amazing thing was suddenly observed by 
James. There appeared to him to be quite close to him, 
where still the shingle only at intervals was covered by 
advancing ripples, a young man and a young woman. 
James stared. Hallucination? Spirits? Not spirits. 
The young man was smoking. Smoking! 

“ What the devil,” cried James, amazed, “ are you 
doing here? ” 

“ Does the place,” demanded the young man trucu¬ 
lently, “ belong to you? ” 

The truculence yet further astounded James. “ Are 
you,” demanded James, “ cut off too?” 

“ Cut off! ” said the young man. “ Cut off what? ” 

James set down Elsie. “ Aren’t we cut off by the 
tide? Do you mean to say,” said James, stupefied, 
“ that we aren’t cut off by the tide? ” 

The young man who in the vision of his appearance 
had his arm about his young woman companion, and in 
the vision of his truculence had dropped it, now replaced 
his arm and with his companion began to turn away. 
“ You jolly soon will be,” said the young man indif¬ 
ferently, “ if you propose to stay here much longer.” 

Chilly and sarcastic on the part of the young man, 
stupefied on the part of James, a brief dialogue ensued. 
Where the cliff sloped gradual and wooded there was, 
said the young man, an easy pathway down its face; 
smugglers had made and used it. Where the cliff 


THE GRIM TEST 


190 

became sheer and of rock, the smugglers had tunneled 
down to emerge on the shingle in a narrow opening 
(“ Smugglers’ Hole,” said the young man), tha»t stood 
behind a towering pillar of rock just at the cliff’s turn. 
“ Smugglers’ Finger,” said the young man, beginning 
to squeeze himself, as his companion had already 
squeezed herself, behind it. 

“ But I didn’t think it was any good squeezing behind 
that! ” said James. 

“You wouldn’t,” said the young man, squeezing, 
“ unless you knew ”; and squeezed finally, and disap¬ 
peared. 

“ Well! ” said James. 

He often wondered, afterwards, why, by reaction, 
they did not go off into helpless laughter. Much dif¬ 
ferently, it was with no more said they left the place; 
in silence took the upward path, and reached the level 
brow. There was a steep step for the final pace. James 
took it first and turned and stretched his hands to 
Elsie. “*I sha’n’t feel,” he said, “ it ever really hap¬ 
pened until we’re side by side up here.” 

He helped her up; and as their hands joined and as 
he took her weight, “ It’s all right,” he said; “ forget 
it; it wasn’t real ” ; and he drew her to his level; and 
he continued the motion of his arms and brought her 
to his heart; and she caught her breath; and she said, 
“ Oh, is this real? ” and she was enfolded to his heart 
and he said, “ Real, real, for ever! ” 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 



















A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


The kindest thing said of her, or should one say 
the thing the least unkind? was that she was defi¬ 
cient. Her fellows of her village (of the Nord) had 
for her other terms; deficient was the cure’s estimate — 
said of her when news came of her during her con¬ 
siderable absence from those parts, but noted in her by 
him very much earlier in her life. Looking back, he 
saw that when she was a child, twelve, thirteen, as 
early as that, he had seen signs of it; when a young 
woman, sixteen and upwards to nineteen (her age when 
she left the village), had definitely suspected it. 

Deficient. Not deficiency in wits was meant; she 
was of a slow, not a vivacious, habit of mind, but in 
no degree short of intelligence; nor yet, most cer¬ 
tainly, deficiency physical: she was great-limbed and 
strangely beautiful; nor even deficient in a general 
moral sense: did not lie nor steal, was kind and honest. 
No, she was deficient (if the charity of the cure is to 
be adopted) solely in her sense of virtue. She simply 
did not have that sense. It was not to be appealed to 
in her because it was not there. When she was made 
she was made gloriously without but within was left — 
deficient. She did not seem to understand. The cure, 
in her earlier years, pleaded with her; her mother 
chided her; her father beat her; the neighbours ostra- 


194 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

cized her. It went for nothing with her. The avail 
of it all was as the avail, with like intent, of beseeching, 
upbraiding, beating, segregating an animal. She did 
not understand. She was deficient. 

When she was nineteen, working then as she had 
worked since she was ten, on her father’s fields, an 
artist came to that village and painted her. He painted 
her because she was glorious and wonderful, and he 
painted her in that setting to which the glory of her 
beauty and the wonder of her stature belonged. 

She belonged to the soil. 

He came on her in the corner of a ploughed field 
adjoining the road on which he walked. She had a 
heavy cart there, a huge farm horse between the shafts, 
and she was upright on the cart unloading from it the 
steamy stable bedding that was its burthen. She used 
a pitchfork, a long ash pole headed with a double prong 
of steel; and that artist thought she made, standing 
aloft there and wielding her fork — immensely stab¬ 
bing, enormously raising, ponderously casting — the 
spectacle the most superbly statuesque of poise, rhyth¬ 
mical of movement, that ever he had known the human 
form assume. And what a form! “ Amazon ” was 

first to his mind, a woman thighed and shouldered for 
a warrior’s part; and Amazon was she. Then “ God¬ 
dess ” thought he, a statue deeply breasted, benign of 
countenance, kind, mild, serenely browed; and god¬ 
dess-like she was. 

A misty rain was falling. It had vexed that artist, 
and disliking to be wet he was hurrying, when he came 
upon her, homeward bound to the cottage where for 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 195 

his painting expedition he had found a room. She 
worked amidst that rain as if not conscious of it, as 
if impervious to it. She wore to her knees a smock, 
belted with a strap, much as in England in the war 
days the land-girls wore; breeches just as were worn 
by them; and high, stout boots that we called trench 
boots. She had no hat. Her hair was jewelled by the 
rain in points of light, and crescent on her brow the 
like stars stood; her diadem, her coronet, that artist 
thought. The mist of rain, blurring the further pros¬ 
pects, was like, he thought, some special element only 
through which (as shapes beheld in clouds from magic 
potions) she was revealed. 

She looked up and saw him and she smiled at him. 

Her smile was slow. There was in it — as of her 
deficiency there might have been — no wanton trace, 
nothing of cunning, nothing bold. It was a smile 
serene, benign; goddess to mortal; mother to off¬ 
spring; the tender, gentle smile that first from Eve in 
Eden announced, not sex to sex, but oneness of human¬ 
ity, kinship of pain and joy beneath a common yoke, 
the fellowship of man. It was surprising in her, that 
slow, tender smile, when — as then — in arduous occu¬ 
pation in rough toil; but that artist came to know it 
suitable to her, characteristic of her slow, deliberate 
ways, when she was not at work. There was in par¬ 
ticular another time he saw her — as often in those 
parts she was to be seen: walking upon the road alone 
(who would walk with her?) ; smocked, booted, 
breeched; her pitchfork on her shoulder, always held 
high, be it pitchfork, spade or mattock; her strong 


ig 6 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

hand, holding it, close against her breast; her other 
arm pendant, never swinging; her serene countenance 
uplifted, her mild eyes steadily before her, her pace 
slow as a labouring man’s, but her knees, unlike the 
labouring man, braced at each impulse; her body, un¬ 
like theirs, erect, straight as a tree. “ I saw men as 
trees walking” then had been that artist’s thought; 
but of her holland smock, the fairness of her hue, 
tinted in bronze, and of her ’flaxen hair uncovered, a 
golden tree, he thought. 

Her smile could be imagined then. 

Now, as towards him from her cart she smiled, she 
spoke no word; resumed her heavy task; smiled twice 
or thrice again; once for a breathing space leaned on 
her fork regarding him, and all her thoughts (he felt) 
equally with her slow smile benign. 

When the cart was empty, the manure a steaming 
pile where she had thrown it, she poised herself, neg¬ 
ligently, superbly, and launched the fork upright into 
the ground a dozen yards away. A javelin, that artist 
thought, sped by Diana’s hand. She took then a shovel 
— that long-handled scoop used of the French — 
scraped the cart roughly clean, descended, took the 
great horse by its bridle, and with cries in a voice 
strangely high and clear (deep, from that fine frame, 
he would have expected it) and with powerful impulses 
of her strong arm, drew the huge beast in a half-circle 
towards a pile of heavy roots; then, masterfully direct¬ 
ing its massive movements, forced it to back the cart 
against the mound. She resumed then the spade and 
now that artist saw her in the splendid motions of 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 197 

stooping to thrust her scoop beneath the clumsy roots, 
raising it ladened, swinging it mightily, discharging 
with perfect aim to make a level load within the cart, 
returning at the stroke’s end to stoop and thrust and 
raise and swing and shoot again. 

It was finished. She tossed the spade, easily as she 
had launched the fork, upon her load. She put her 
hands upon her loins and stretched her back against the 
downward tension of her stooping and gave a sound 
laughingly expressive of the twinge it caused her; 
recovered her poise, laughed towards that artist, tossed 
up her arms and stretched her limbs, a splendid sight, 
and laughed at him again. She caught then her horse’s 
bridle and urged it to the collar. The wheels, heavily 
burthened, were sunk in the soft ploughed soil. Tre¬ 
mendously the great horse strove, its quarters braced, 
muscles and tendons like bars and rods of steel, hoofs, 
deeply buried, thrusting like ploughs within their pits; 
its forelegs in enormous grapplings rending and spurn¬ 
ing up the soil; and all its massy, straining bulk break¬ 
ing between the shafts to this side and to that as im¬ 
mensely it strove to burst away the hold that locked the 
wheels. To one not versed, or weak, there had been 
peril in those trampling hoofs, in that swaying mass, 
in that great head churning upon its iron neck the air. 
She had no danger thence. She was the master and 
director of this power here. That artist saw her strong 
and practised arm forbid the tossing head and hold it 
down as gives the stronger pull; and heard her cries, 
in that clear voice, of her encouragement; then saw her 
leave the bridle and with both hands along a shaft brace 


198 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

in the ground her feet and, her bent back to him, cry in 
her dialect in language understood of horses, what may 
be written here as “ Heave! Ah, hallo — heave! ” 

The wheels began. 

Much quicker than the pen will go drew she herself 
upon the shaft and set herself upright, and ran five 
steps, and now was at the wheels, one hand beneath a 
spoke, the other in reciprocation of her effort skywards, 
the very fingers straining up. 

“ Heave! ” 

The touch of breaking was felt by her horse; enor¬ 
mously he strained. 

“ Heave! ” 

And felt and strained anew. 

“ Heave! Ah, hallo — heave! ” 

The wheels broke loose; forward the great horse 
plunged. 

She ran, swift as the instant, and caught the head 
flung high and swung the creature to her and ran with 
it, now running freely, and thrust it from her now, 
her arm to full extent, and set it for the open gateway. 
Great horse and heavy cart, immense projectile, slow 
to be stopped now set in motion, drove at that artist 
where he stood. She shouted warning and he stood 
away, much apprehensive now how at that pace and 
with its impetus and clumsiness the huge affair was to 
come safely through the narrow gap and in the road 
be turned before disaster in the facing dyke. 

She had no fears. 

Alarmed, but ever of her movements admiration- 
filled, he saw her leave her lumbering horse and dart 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 199 

away to where she had impaled her fork. The thing 
was to be done, if done the thing could be, with a cal¬ 
culation perilous in its nicety. She did it. With her 
left hand she caught her fork; sprung to the gateway 
and had her horse’s head just as it crossed the line; 
cried to it; lay to it; at the exact point on the road’s 
surface swung it about and to her; lay back with other 
cry and had it checked, steadied, smoothly walking. 

That artist joined her. She was by her exertions 
scarcely flushed, her breathing not distressed, no sign 
nor hint of sweat; the strong, sweet odour of the horse 
the only note between them of their effort. She smiled 
at him, accepting him as though from his first appear¬ 
ance it had been known that he was come for her, and 
in her slow kind voice immediately was talking with 
him. She was as tall as he and he was tall. Her hand 
the further from him held her horse’s head; with that 
beside him she sloped her fork upon her shoulder. He 
put his fingers within the bend of her elbow and dared 
her with his eyes. She only smiled and flexed her arm, 
pressing his hand. He had no cause for diffidence. At 
the fringe of the village where she must swing off and 
he go on, he had a suggestion for her and she com¬ 
plied with it with a naturalness perfect as might a 
mother to her child. She turned her face to him and 
he kissed her warm, soft lips. She appointed when she 
would be free and where meet him at nightfall. 

Well, she was deficient. . . . 

This artist in that sojourn that he then made painted 
her. The portrait, life size, hangs now in a notable 
private collection by whose owner, and not by him 


200 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


alone, it is regarded as its chiefest treasure. (The 
artist was killed in the first month of the war and those 
favoured to look upon that portrait in the name of art 
much lament him). It shows her, smocked, booted, 
breeched, standing on a ploughland, her pitchfork on 
her shoulder. He called it first “ Le Coeur du Sol ” — 
The heart, or, as we would say, The spirit of the Soil; 
afterwards, and as it now is known, “ Le Sol ” — “ The 
Soil.” A pitchfork, it has been objected, was not the 
implement to have chosen for a setting of the plough- 
turned soil. Having regard to her destiny (as shall be 
seen) his choice was curiously prophetic; and it is 
strange that each of three other notable portraits of 
her (not by the same hand; done by others when, in a 
period to be touched, she was model and mistress in 
the Quarter) shows her again with weapon in her 
grasp: Hera with sickle, Juno with spear, Jeanne 
D’Arc with sword. All are notable, each also speaks to 
the type her beauty was, but that first artist’s of her 
upon her element the soil, has pride of place. There 
has become attached to it the phrase written of it by a 
mighty critic. “ A breathing and a glorious thing ” 
were his words; and that was she, and painfully behind 
that artist’s genius labour the sentences of this record 
that seeks also to depict her. 

Well, in his sojourn he painted her. What else he 
had of her needed no telling from mouth to mouth in 
that village. Mouths of the respectable only concerned 
themselves with her, in this connection, to pass one to 
another the news that she was gone off with this 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 201 


painter, he had taken her to Paris. Well, said the 
mouths, a fit end to her; the village well rid of her. 

They were too soon. He congratulates himself best 
who congratulates himself last, and it was not in that 
wise that permanently she left them. The disappear¬ 
ance with her painter rascal to Paris was not the end 
to her in that place. Four years afterwards — twenty- 
three then — she returned (the shameless one!) and 
returning remained (the brazen) and remaining- 

This is how she returned, how remained and how 
ultimately comported herself. 

She returned garishly dressed (for those parts). A 
conspicuous automobile brought her and there sat in 
it beside her its owner — and hers (he was not, by 
many removes, that one who took her from the place). 
What had happened was that the lover to whom then 
she was passed, finding her morose, and urgent to 
placate her, had suggested a picnic run into the coun¬ 
try and had named for the place of the picnic a district 
of her own Department of the Nord. Strange that 
immediately on his offer of the outing, and never before, 
there were aroused in her cravings more passionate, 
instincts more deeply sown, than even those appetites 
and those behests whose creature — deficient — from 
her brief maidenhood she had been. A craving for 
nature, a heart-sickness for the soil, were these much 
deeper instincts, now re-aroused. As a child, while in 
the village school her girl companions had responded 
to refinements of education, the soil, its creatures and 
its fruits upon her father’s farm, had been her sole 



202 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

delight; maturing, her companions drawn by refining 
influences to domestic tasks, she by the soil alone was 
called; they, in the upshot, to their graces and their 
fashions; the land for her! Warm from the soil, girt 
like a man and labouring, for love of it, more hard and 
long than any man, she had been found and taken. 
Now! 

Four years divorced her from the soil. Divorced is 
wrong. Not husband to her was the soil but that much 
different, and different stronger, tie, of mother; and 
what to offspring of the womb, bound by the womb’s 
mysterious affections, are four brief years that bring 
again the mother with wide arms ? 

Ah, now! 

As the car — Paris, its outskirts and its border coun¬ 
try passed — plunged deeply into leaf and lane, her 
keeper saw her strange. How strange from him and all 
the iron streets, and crowded, towering masonry, and 
close exhausted airs for which he stood he could not 
know. He saw her strange; but she was seeing the 
soil her mother. . . . Her mother’s face before her 
eyes, bedewing them; her mother’s breath upon her 
brow, caressing it; her mother’s voice upon her ears, 
enchanting them; her mother’s scents drawn at each 
inspiration of her breast to touch, like wine, her pulses 
and enrapture them. Deeper within the soil’s dominion 
ran the car. Like essences from magic jars released, 
sights, sounds and savours streamed about her from 
the land, its brown kind breast, its fruits; its creatures, 
pastures, peasants; woods, waters, habitations, hills; 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 203 

the patient, lovely earth; the dear obedient tilth; the 
earth; the land; the soil. 

Ah, now! 

She had been sitting forward on her seat, holding 
each breath she drew; tremulously drawing them as if 
afraid; suddenly exhaling them as she were stung. 
Rain had begun to fall. Her keeper objurgated it and 
raised the hood. She welcomed it, but said no word, 
but sat yet further forward that the rain might fall 
upon her face. They came to the place, a wood, he 
had designed for their picnic; but it was raining still; 
and she spoke then and, the rain her excuse, suggested 
trial farther on and told him then she knew these parts 
and gave directions — on to a pool, left hand beyond 
it, then right, then left again; right to a spinney, left 
until a crucifix was reached, then left again and on. 

. . . And now, among the paths her booted feet had 
trod, was called by every well-remembered tree, each 
gate, each hedge, each field, each very stone, and in her 
heart called back to them; sitting, one hand extended 
to the rain and to her darlings, the other at her breast. 

They passed the crucifix . . . she crossed herself 
. . . that Christ that had received her kind . . . and 
on, and presently were at a haystack standing within a 
gate. Always a stack had stood here . . . this stack 
might be the same she last had seen there. . . . She 
bade her owner stop . . . here, beside the shelter of 
the stack, would do. She got out and stooped and with 
her hands touched the dear road. The rain had abated 
to a fine drizzle and she turned her face up to it and 
stood, her face thus turned, more than a little while. 


204 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

The man, still in the car, was grumbling savagely. 
What fool suggestion this? To soak out here! An inn 
would offer itself there where that spire pointed (it was 
her village) ; he was for going there. This cursed rain 
. . . this cursed trip. . . . 

She was not hearing. She went to the gate and 
through it and, her distance but a few paces, his grum¬ 
bling and his impatience were continued at her. She 
did not hear. She went to the stack and when she 
reached it put out to it sudden hands, and stretched 
apart her arms, and laid her palms, wide as they could 
reach apart, upon the stack and leaned against it, press¬ 
ing to it her face, and drew within her body all the 
savours it exhaled; reading their stories, of harvest 
field, of barn, of byre; hearing their music, of scythe, 
of reaper, groaning wain, of harvest home, of restless 
cattle in the sheds; and almost swooned. . . . 

She went back to him and spoke to him. He was to 
go. She was to stay. This was her home. She was 
returned to it. She now could leave it never. The 
soil desired her. She desired the soil. “ I pray thee 
go. I pray thee.” 

Through the day he had been uncomfortable. Her 
manner first had surprised him, then irritated, then a 
little alarmed him; now both alarmed and angered 
him. “ Thy home? A trick, eh?” Much more, and 
ended with “ Soak in thy filthy fields then, — ” 

He threw in his clutch and left her with the name he 
had applied to her; and turning in his seat called it 
back to her again . . . was gone. 

The field stood up in barley, high in head. She dug 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 205 

with her hands among the roots, deep into the rain- 
soft earth, and brought up both her fists filled with the 
gentle loam and raised them to her face and, as she had 
inhaled the hay, inhaled the soil, and as before inter¬ 
preted it, and worked the loam between her hands, 
feeling it. The soil! 

She took off the plumed hat she wore, and then her 
jacket, and within the bramble-covered ditch forced 
them beneath the brambles out of sight. Her blouse 
was modest; fashionably tucked at the sleeves, but she 
tore out the gathers there. Her skirt was plain. She 
looked at her shoes and then about her where a sharp 
stone was. It was easy to knock off the heels, to tear 
off the buckles. She had three rings and slid them 
from her fingers and broke a little chain about her 
neck; these in the ditch’s bank and trodden in. 

She went then to the village and to her father’s 
house. 

There had been changes in that house. Her mother 
had died before she went to Paris. She found her 
father, a man of seventy, married again and partnered 
now with one that had been widow of the miller of 
that place. Two brothers that formerly were in the 
home, their father’s idols as was she his shame, now 
had got wives and dwelt, one at the mill (now her 
father’s), one in a cottage that adjoined the farm. 
One other change was a new labourer — acquired but 
a month before — a stranger in those parts, somewhat 
mysteriously arrived (new residents are rare in agri¬ 
cultural communities) and having the singularity of 


206 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


an iron hook where should have been his left hand, 
lost in some accident. In the village they called him 
the Man of the Hook, the Hook Man, and, as usually 
goes with possession of a nickname, he had a notable 
popularity. 

These were the changes that she found: herself, 
though permitted, welcomed indeed, to return to her 
employment, was caused to know the change of not now 
being suffered to dwell within her father’s house. 

This was an austere woman her father had taken to 
second wife and her father was austere, deeply reli¬ 
gious, a man of great physique, patriarch-bearded, 
respected for miles about; one that had fought in the 
1870, that had (of his memories of the invader) almosf 
for equal gods France and his Maker, and that, in 
earlier storms against his daughter, had beat his breast 
for shame to have presented such an offspring to his 
country and his God. However, he did not then, and 
did not now, refuse himself the labour she was capable 
of giving him. With his farm he had also now his 
mill; labour was scarce; here was returned to him his 
daughter who was a man’s, two men’s, worth and who 
moreover had not to be paid. One does not pay 
daughters, much less a daughter such as she, a shame¬ 
less one. 

Therefore he received her but received her with this 
tribute to his stern piety, to his respected status in the 
country-side and to his regard for the honour of his 
home (a home of his beloved France) that he would 
not suffer her to cross his threshold. Most straitly 
herein his wife, his sons and his sons’ wives, supported 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 207 

him. That shameless one, that thing! Let her work 
in the fields, but let her live on the fields! Why, if so 
much as the barn within the yard were offered her, 
would not there be visitors there to her by night, out¬ 
raging these precincts! 

Remote upon her father’s fields was a disused hut, 
a cabin of a single room. Resuming her life, she lived 
there. 

Now she was to be seen again as first she has been 
seen, breeched, booted, smocked, a belt about her mid¬ 
dle; at the plough, at the spade, at the churn; with 
her teams, with her cows, with her swine; with her 
fork, with her scythe, with her pails. Her hands, in 
the first weeks, bruised and blistered, but she had been 
in Paris no rich man’s woman; had scrubbed floors, 
cooked dishes, sewn garments, keeping the artists who 
kept her, model and maid and mistress. Her hands, as 
her limbs, never soft, soon hardened as of old. 

The happiness of that kind that she was, since they 
deserve none, is nothing to the world whose shame they 
are, but it is to be said that, restored where she be¬ 
longed, the soil’s own natural, she now was very 
happy; that smile, simple, benign, maternal, ever upon 
her face. Out of the mill there was new work for her. 
Its power — a water-mill — worked also the thrashing 
machine that served the small farmers of the district. 
Their crops, since the power could not go to them, must 
needs be brought to the thrashing and her father added 
to his revenues by with his own team and wagon 
collecting their grain. That was her part. Atop the 
loaded wagon she was to be seen (just as that artist 


208 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


first had seen her) mightily, easily, with consummate 
deftness, feeding with her fork the heavy sheaves into 
the great box above the machine, whence, passed to the 
feeding-board and there spread out, they went between 
the rollers, into the drum, beneath the beaters, so to 
emerge, the grain through the winnowing fans, thence 
into sacks; the separated straw through the ejectors, 
again to be loaded and transported whence it came. 
When all a load presently was worked through the 
thrasher, easily as her brothers and as the Hook Man 
working beside her, she would swing on her back the 
bursting sacks of grain, run them to the mill barn and 
with a deft swing and toss drop them in their place; 
then, the men gone off, stack back the straw upon the 
wagon and return it to the farms. In collecting, driv¬ 
ing many miles abroad and returning afoot beside her 
team, she had always two great horses, sometimes 
three: and first, with the farmstead’s help loaded its 
sheaves, then alone urged her giants to the load and 
brought them down the lanes. 

Urging them to it! 

“ Together! ” called in her high, clear voice, and with 
a burst of chain and bells and traces her team would 
take the collar; “Heave!” and with ringing clash of 
harness, groan of axles, beat of hoofs would start the 
wain. 

“ Together! Heave! ” 

“ Heave! Ah, hallo — heave! ” and she was at her 
leader’s head, her hand upon the bridle, against her 
neck her fork. 

A breathing and a glorious thing. 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 209 

They called her Magdalen. 

The term was truer for her than they knew. That 
village cried it at her as a mock. It is not so. It stands 
in Western hagiology for one restored to purity and 
elevated to saintship, restored by tears, made saint by 
faith. The hour of her restoration was when she 
leaned against that stack, when pressed within her 
hands that mould, and drew from them their virtues, 
and was by them reclaimed, and went, and sinned no 
more. The coming of her faith, and of, I think — but 
you shall judge — her martyrdom, was now. 

Her faith was France. 

Her faith —if faith is “ I believe: help Thou mine 
Unbelief”— had always been the soil; there came 
events within whose crucible the soil she loved changed 
from loved element into the spirit of the land whose 
element it was. 

Enormous convulsions of the world, calamitous up¬ 
heavals of mankind, first heralded, then brought about 
this change. The year was 1914, the period high sum¬ 
mer. First was rumour; then were facts; then, in a 
night, the village stuck with proclamations; and then, 
responsive to them, the young men called away. Her 
brothers went. Her father, that had fought in 70, sent 
them off with head bowed down indeed, but with his 
fists clenched and with this cry and prayer: “The 
Prussian! France! Again the Prussian! France, 
France! ” 

Her father was in that period mayor of the village. 
On that night of the departure of the conscripts she 


210 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


heard him at the Mairie address a meeting of all left, 
the older and the unfit men, the weeping women. It 
was an exhortation, his arms upraised, eyes in their 
hairy frames ablaze, the huge chest heaving, the great 
voice ringing. “France! France!” The glorious 
word shook through his exhortation as in few days 
upon the air, enormous, heart-stunning, were to shake 
the cannon. “France! France! Courage, my chil¬ 
dren! France! France!” And with it, also much 
reiterated, this: 

“ The blood of France to the soil of France! It is 
proper. It is seemly. It is good. You mothers, if 
you shall give your sons; you wives, if you shall give 
your husbands; my little ones, you, if you shall give 
your fathers, say only this — with pride, with song, 
with glory: ‘The blood of France to the soil of 
France!’ 

“France! France! 

“ Shout with me, my people! ” 

And they shouted with him, all those there, their 
hands uplifted, “ France! France! France!” 

It was the cry she took with her across the fields to 
her cabin that night. “France!” It was the spirit 
that arose to her out of the fields and trod beside her. 
“ France! France!” 

“ The blood of France to the soil of France.” Yes, 
proper; yes, seemly; yes, as it should be. France! 
France! 

There were terrible days came then. This village 
was very near the frontier of Belgium. In one time 
there passed through it, northwards, glorious battal- 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 211 

ions in horizon blue, guns, lorries, wagons, horses, all 
war’s brave panoply. France! France! Then hopes, 
then fears, then distant, then less distant, sound of 
guns. Then lines retiring south. First, in procession 
endless, terrible, the Croix Rouge ambulances; then 
guns; then wagons, lorries; then the horizon blue, 
stained, driven, spent, defeated. 

France! France! 

There was flight then from that village, furniture on 
carts, litter on barrows, packages on backs, children in 
arms, a populace that fled before the sword. Their 
places were not empty. Shed from those vreary col¬ 
umns streaming through, in every house, in every 
room, laid in the streets, filling the church, were dead 
and dying and stricken. 

France! France! 

One of her brothers, brought there by chance, died 
in the Mairie in her father’s arms. The old man, tear¬ 
less, spoke his epitaph, “ The blood of France to the 
soil of France. It is proper; it is right; it is as it 
should be.” Her other brother, pale, stern, a bloody 
cloth about his head, passed in the weary ranks and saw 
her father and raised his hand in salutation and pale 
and stern and bloody-browed passed on. France! 

Still flight. 

Her father would not go, the cure would not go; 
while their people were here their duty was here. 
Others would not go; it was not to be believed the 
Germans could come, a day yet could be waited . . . 
and a day yet . . . and a day yet. Her stepmother 
would not go; the Hook Man, on account of his disable- 


212 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

ment not called to the colours, would not go. He had 
disappeared from the village on the day when first the 
troops passed through and it was thought he had fled, 
but he reappeared in the time of the retirement and he 
was prominent, and was approved by her father, in 
encouraging the hearts of those who were tarrying a 
day yet . . . and a day yet . . . 

For these, in the event, a day too long. In one 
moment, but diminishingly, recedingly, horizon blue; 
in the next, as it seemed — swiftly as press storm- 
driven clouds across a summer sky, suddenly as on the 
morning of a night of snow the window shows a land¬ 
scape newly clothed — from end to end field-grey. 

Here draws to close her chronicle. Normality, how¬ 
ever calamitous the old's eruption, descends with 
strange celerity upon the new. That which in prospect 
is unspeakable — death of a leader, imposition of a 
drastic law — achieves to fact, and lo, normality again ; 
the tide, whatever freight it bears, flows on. That vil¬ 
lage, in occupation, assumed a normal way. Vile deeds 
— executions, imprisonments, deaths violent and deaths 
by vile deeds welcome — passed* and, coloured from 
hues of life to pall of dull field-grey, that village 
accepted the normality imposed upon it. 

So much, at least, the surface showed. Deeper there 
moved, as moves the sap beneath the winter grip, a 
secret thing. There was sullen acceptance of the in¬ 
evitable but there was beneath it, running among the 
principal inhabitants left in that place — the mayor, 
his wife, the cure, six other women, three other men — 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 213 

a current, hidden, perilous, devoted; the sound o|f 
whose murmur was “ For France! ”; the well-spring of 
whose force, the river of whose service, was France, 
France! They called themselves, this body, The 
Twelve. With plotters similar in villages similarly 
occupied, they formed an organisation through which 
was circulated to appointed agents information touch¬ 
ing the captors in whose midst they were, what regi¬ 
ments, what strength, what morale, what gossip of 
movements and intentions, sometimes through which 
escaped prisoners or accredited agents were passed 
from place to place. 

The mayor was the leader of the Twelve; on a day 
he told his daughter of its existence and called her to 
its aid. 

She had less work in these days of the occupation. 
She had seen her splendid horses led away, her cattle 
driven off, her farmyard creatures killed for German 
mouths, the mill-wheels silenced; only some desultory; 
field work remained to her. She was lonely. She had. 
been, despite their common woe, no better received of 
her campatriots; her story somehow had been acquired 
by the field-grey conquerors. They mocked her with 
her epithet: “ Yah, Magdalen! ” 

Now! 

Hearing her father’s story of the Twelve, receiv¬ 
ing his commands, she thought her heart, swelling with 
emotion to know of these devoted ones and of those 
others, leagues about, link in whose chain these were, 
would burst-with pride and gratitude at summons to 
their cause. 


214 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 

Her duty was to be to sentinel the meetings of the 
Twelve. These were held, her father told her, weekly 
in that room on the ground floor of the Mairie where 
weekly (in his office of responsibility for the French 
inhabitants, their behaviour and their provisioning) the 
inhabitants were permitted to assemble to draw 1 the 
ration tickets he issued to them. It was arranged that 
the members of the Twelve drew last; when they alone 
were left their business was conducted. There had 
arisen fear, her father told her, that suspicion was 
afoot. It was necessary that a watcher should loiter 
without the door to give warning of approach. Thirty 
yards up the street from the Mairie and on the side 
opposite was the dwelling taken over by the German 
commandant of the village for his office. A sentry 
stood always before it. A window of the Mairie’s 
ground floor room having a low ledge looked on the 
street. It was deputed to her that she should sit idling 
on this ledge. If any came out to approach from the 
commandant’s office her hands, idling by her sides, 
should rap stealthily upon the window pane. 

This was told to her in that same room at the Mairie, 
summoned there to her father by a message from him 
and being spoken to by him, for the first time since her 
return to the village, by the endearment “ My 
daughter.” 

Her heart, for the kind term as for her sacred 
mission, was very full. 

She said, “ My father — that I am chosen — for 
France — ” 

He said to her, “ My daughter, for one that is in 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 215 

esteem among us to be loitering in the street there, eye¬ 
ing, as thou shalt eye, that sentry, is of suspicion. For 
thee — ” he sighed. 

She began, “ My father — if in the past — ” 

He said, “ My daughter, it is known to those grey 
devils what thou art. Heed is not taken ” — he sighed 
— “ of thy sort.” 

She cried, twisting her fingers, “ My father — if in 
the past I have been wanton — since my return — since 
the war — God knoweth — France —” 

He only attended her'last stammered word. He said, 
conducting her to the door, It is for France. At this 
hour tomorrow, at the meeting, France will be in thy 
hands.” 

She went from him, wiping her eyes, but with her 
heart uplifted. France! France! 

As she came towards the office of the commandant 
she looked across at the sentry. He made with his 
mouth the shape of the word “ Magdalen.” She smiled 
at him, encouragement, of set purpose, in her smile. 
He grinned return. She smiled again. France! There 
stepped at that moment into the doorway, emerging 
from the commandant’s office, the man of one arm, her 
father’s labourer. The hook of his left arm was held 
to his right hand and he was busy, when she caught 
sight of him, with papers that he held there; she could 
see his thumb rapidly moving upon them. He was 
close beside the sentry and she thought the sentry spoke 
to him. He thrust within his breast what it was that 
he held in his hand and with the motion looked up 
towards her and then came to her. She noticed, a 


216 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


singularity in those hungry days, how much stouter he 
had grown. He drew her a few paces, eyed backwards 
at the sentry, and drew her on again, a secretive ges¬ 
ture. “ My papers,” he said and touched the breast of 
his jacket where she had seen him thrust his hand. 
“ They have been examining me, those grey devils in 
there. I am suspect, I.” 

He nodded at her as though his eyes, full of meaning, 
should tell her more than dared be spoken. “ They are 
clever, those in there,” he said; “ but I am more clever, 
I that you see before you.” He nodded again, very 
meaningly. “ It is for France,” he whispered. 

She began, “ Art thou — ” ; but her father had told 
her the Twelve, not naming this one, and she stopped. 

He said, “ There is service for France at work here. 
If thou shouldst learn of it, tell me. I also would be 
of that number.” 

She had.no impulse to tell him; her thought was of 
pride in being the repository of knowledge, for France, 
not vouchsafed to him; but she thought also eagerly 
of telling her father of one anxious to be recruited, and 
she slept scarcely at all that night, devising more ways 
by which she could assist the Twelve and through them 
France . . . France . . . France! 

She is to be pictured on that morrow approaching up 
the street the Mairie at the hour appointed, smocked, 
booted, breeched, a breathing and a glorious thing 
and, of her mission, with glory in her heart. She had 
her pitchfork on her shoulder. She had come from 
and, her mission done, would pass on to, its use. She 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 217 

is to be pictured, the lesser people gone, the Twelve 
within, seated upon the window ledge, her left hand 
set upon her pitchfork’s shaft, as she had been a statue 
carved in stone: a queen with spear. 

Herself, motionless, the sentry thirty yards away, 
motionless, were the only persons in the street. She 
watched him; sometimes he stared at her. 

France! 

She presently remembered that both her hands should 
be ready against the glass behind her to drum, if need 
should be, her warning. The window was against the 
doorway of the Mairie. She placed the fork, prongs 
upward, by the doorpost and put her hands beside her. 

In a while there emerged from the room one of the 
Twelve, then another, two others then; then her step¬ 
mother, next the cure, others, lastly her father. None 
were to notice her — she who was noticed of none — 
and none did. Severally they passed from sight; their 
footsteps died away; she and the sentry shared again 
the silent street. 

France! 

Well, it was finished. She had been commanded of 
her father not to leave her place for some time after 
the dispersal, and for some time she remained. Now 
she thought she might go; and to cherish to herself 
the place where France, in her keeping, had been 
served, she turned and through the window peered 
within the room. She peered. Her task for France 
was done. . . . 

It was not done. 

Against the wall of the room straight opposite the 


218 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


window a tall cupboard stood. As she peered, she 
saw, and caught her breath, this cupboard’s door 
move slowly outwards. There came through the aper¬ 
ture and held the door, advancing it, not the fingers 
of a hand but the head of a hook. She stood up. Her 
drumming heart began her thoughts with “ France ” 
and with “ France ” ended them. She thought: 

“ France! He that mysteriously came to this village 
and that was friend with all and that, of his arm, could 
not be called to the colours. . . . He that strangely 
went and strangely came again, bidding the people stay. 
He that, while the rest, of meagre rations, grew thin, 
was grown fat. He that, but the day ago, she had seen 
coming from the commandant’s office with in his 
hands — money! . . . He that had asked her to tell 
him if she should hear of secret service. . . . He that, 
during this conference of the Twelve, with whom were 
linked God knew how many others, had been concealed 
and listening . . . France!” 

She stepped past her pitchfork to the door and 
opened it. He was emerged from the cupboard and was 
in the room’s centre, advancing. At her appearance 
he stopped. She outstretched at him an arm denounc¬ 
ing him and she spoke to him in a voice terrible to hear 
one word: 

“ Iscariot!” 

There was a vile look came upon his face and he 
answered her out of it, “ Yah, Magdalen! ” But he 
laughed and the look of mingled hate and fear was 
gone. The game was his. 

He laughed and said, “ I have twelve at a blow here.” 


A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 219 

He touched his forehead, “ I have here twice twelve.’ 5 
He put out his hook and his hand, “ I have here in my 
hands a chain of such from Amiens to Brussels.” He 
stepped towards her and pushed her violently, “ Out of 
my way, thou dirt! ” 

Now this happened. He thrust past her and put hand 
and hook in his pockets and went five paces up towards 
the German sentry, whistling. She was thrust out¬ 
wards by his push and she staggered and caught at 
the doorpost, and her right hand, swinging round, 
struck the shaft of her pitchfork standing there and she 
gripped it. He was going to betray France and she 
was there for France. He had not yet betrayed France 
and she was there for France. She stepped out with 
her right foot a great stride from the wall of the 
Mairie and she swung up the pitchfork, held where it 
balanced, as a spear is held. He looked round at 
her to laugh at her again but at what, looking round, 
he saw he did not laugh. He snatched his hands from 
his pockets and cried out terribly and made to run in 
at her. The fork was going back to the extension of 
her arm and he did not dare to run in at her. He 
turned and threw up his arms and screamed to the 
sentry and ran shouting. 

At the sound of his first scream there was an officer 
came out from the commandant’s and stood with the 
sentry and saw. She was poised more gloriously than 
ever in her labours she had been poised. Her right leg 
was bent and to the point of over-reaching she was bent 
back upon it. Her left leg was forward, twisted from 
the thigh so that the toe of its boot, reversed, alone 


220 A MAGDALEN OF THE SOIL 


held the ground. Her right arm so far as it could 
stretch was behind her head, the fork aligned. Her 
left arm, the fingers of the hand extended, was strained 
towards the flying figure. 

The officer cried to the sentry, “ Shoot, fool and 
dog!” 

She swung with all her force her body forward, and 
launched her fork, and it sped swift and straight and 
struck him that ran upon the loins, so that he screamed 
and flung up his arms and plunged face downwards 
and lay there, blood in his mouth, pierced vitally. 

“ Shoot, dolt and swine! ” 

The sentry three times pressed his trigger, tac — tac 
— tac! and by the hollow vault of the street the sound, 
duplicated, was returned, tacca — tacca — tacca! 

She was come upright. She put her left hand to her 
breast. Between her extended fingers the blood of 
France appeared, welled, and was returned to the soil 
of France. She swayed back. She swayed forward. 
She fell to her knees. She fell on her face, her hand 
to her heart, her other arm extended, the fingers of its 
open hand clutching the soil. 

France! 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 









THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


Oh, yes, there still are fairies and here is a case in 
point; but I have to warn you that a story with fairies 
in it nowadays is very different from the jolly sort of 
the times when fairies had everything their own way. 
Nowadays life has become extraordinarily hard for 
fairies, and they have to put up with a great many 
things they never would have endured in the lovely days 
when they could change a king into a bluebottle and let 
him buzz till he burst for all they cared. 

They can’t do that now. 

Not likely! 

Why can’t they? Well, it isn’t as you might sup¬ 
pose because modern contrivances like policemen and 
wireless and electric light and all that get in their way. 
Oh dear, no! They could put a policeman into the 
middle of next week as easy as winking; but he’d have 
to be the right kind of policeman and that’s just what 
is the difficulty. You see, fairies, though you may not 
know it, do their wonders through the hearts of people 
and I don’t know why it is (at least I could guess but 
I’m not telling), but the hearts of people, alike of police¬ 
men and of kings, of courtiers and of commoners, have 
hardened to such an extent of recent years that fairies 
absolutely can’t do anything with them. Absolutely 
not a thing! In the old days a fairy would get into a 


224 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


heart and the thing melted wherever she touched it. 
Nowadays a fairy gets into a heart and it’s like being 
in a cellar with the door bricked up. It’s not even brick. 
It’s this frightful stuff they use instead of brick — 
concrete, I think they call it. A fairy will crawl into a 
heart like that — they used to flutter into hearts in 
the old days, now they have to crawl — will crawl into 
a heart like that and break as many as a couple of dozen 
wands and never make an impression as deep as a 
scratch. The fairy, utterly exhausted, simply crawls 
out again and goes back to fairyland and reports and 
cries. The volume of tears in fairyland last year alone 
was such that — well, perhaps you’ve noticed how much 
more rain there is than there used to be ? 

Yes, that’s the reason. 

But there still are fairies; and if they can get into a 
heart where they can operate — well, listen. 

The Fairy Queen, who had just dug her way out of 
the heart of a modern young woman where she had 
been jolly nearly entombed, was away having her wings 
ironed and an elderly fairy with a grim, sharp look 
was taking her place and giving out the orders. 

“ Henry Bassett,” said the elderly fairy to a new 
small fairy with a rosy mouth. “ Henry Bassett for 
you. Off you go! ” 

“ Henry Bassett! ” cried the new small fairy, abso¬ 
lutely staggered. “ Henry Bass — ! Buttercups and 
Bull’s-eyes! ” 

“ No swearing, please! ” said the elderly fairy very 
sharply. 

So off the staggered little fairy went to see about it. 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 225 

At five minutes past four on an afternoon very 
shortly afterwards the express from London was 
awaited at Tidborough station by a great crowd of the 
kind called “ an ugly crowd.” The men wore cloth 
caps, rough clothes and scarves about their necks; the 
women were mostly hatless and concealed beneath 
shawls their meanest wear. This was because the whole 
of the finery of the female hands of Bassett’s Paper 
Mills, together with the Sunday clothes of the men, 
was in the care of the Tidborough pawnbrokers. 

Ugly to the eye, the crowd had also an ugly air, 
sullen, sinister, threatening. It emitted, as it shifted 
and swayed beneath its own pressure, a hostile and a 
deep murmuring that swelled to the station roof and 
there reverberated as mutters distant thunder. A fort¬ 
night before, similarly assembled, it would have tem¬ 
porized the violent strength that manifestly lay within 
it by coarse chaff and banter and by cheery hailings, 
one to another. But not now. Bassett’s strikers were 
past that stage. They were hungry. At the outset 
of the strike they had been noisy; they paraded the 
streets and sang songs; and, touching the matter of 
food, joked of “ tightening your belt up a couple of 
holes.” Now they were no longer noisy. They stood 
silently about the bakers’ shops, and the bakers were 
anxious and asked for and got police. 

The strikers had been genial, then jovial, then irrita¬ 
ble, then angry. They were now ferocious, and the 
immediate object of their ferocity was approaching 
them, assembled at the station, in the 4.5 p.m. from 
London: Tug Sanders, “The Strike-breaker.” 


226 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

Strike-breaking by the importation of workers from 
another district has never been successfully established 
in England. It was the notion of Mr. Tug Sanders 
that it could be done, and that he was the man to do 
it; he had been given some publicity by the Press; and, 
reading of the prolonged strike at Bassett’s Paper Mills, 
Tidborough, he had communicated with Mr. Henry 
Bassett, their proprietor. Henry Bassett, stubborn, de¬ 
termined, constitutionally impervious to any other rea¬ 
soning than his own, an embittered man, a lonely man, 
a man with a grudge against all men, proud to his mar¬ 
row and hard to the bone, knowing public opinion in 
Tidborough unanimously against him and steeled by 
that knowledge, had replied to Mr. Tug Sanders’s com¬ 
munication. Mr. Sanders had triumphantly announced 
to the Press that he was “ proceeding to Tidborough 
with a view to arranging to break the strike at Bassett’s 
Paper Mills”; and the employes of Bassett’s Paper 
Mills were now assembled at Tidborough station with 
a view to breaking the neck of Mr. Tug Sanders and 
kicking his remains across the market place. 

She’s signalled! A sharper note ran through the 
murmur of the crowd. Police constables, foiled in at¬ 
tempts to clear the station or line the platform, became, 
in scattered units, as excitement seethed, centres of vio¬ 
lent eddies in a vast mass that yielded from end to end 
as a quicksand trembling within its borders. One tried 
to draw his truncheon. Above the sea of pallid faces 
his crimson visage, blue-helmetted, showed vividly a 
moment like a red buoy, blue-topped, violently agitated 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 227 

from beneath, upon a dingy foam; in the next it was 
as violently swept along and sunk and gone. 

Here she comes! 

Far up the line, superbly round the bend, gloriously 
down the straight — gold-helmed, white-pennoned en¬ 
gine; dull-red, submissive coaches; a captain with his 
cohort, a sultan with his train, an enormous and majes¬ 
tic and imperious thing causing the obsequious earth 
to tremble — effortlessly with shut-off steam, tremen¬ 
dously with roaring brakes and dinning valves, the 
4.5 came on Tidborough. 

Immediately the mass upon the platform convulsed 
in mighty surgings; rushes from behind; in front men 
almost toppled on the line and battling frantically; oaths 
flying; blows exchanged. 

“All right! All right! Where you coming to! 
What the hell! Take that, then! ” 

“An’ that for you!” 

Into this uproar the 4.5; and at once cessation of the 
private brawls; at once a common rush, shouting, fist- 
tossing, upon the train. 

Threatening and sweaty faces pressed against the 
windows and surged along them. 

“ Where is he?” 

“ Where’s the — ?” 

“ Hand him out! ” 

“Throw him out! Throw him out!” 

“ We want Tug Sanders! ” 

And suddenly, with the mysterious unanimity that 
instructs a mob, there was taken up by every voice a 
crashing chant. 


228 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


“We want Tug Sanders! ” 

“We want Tug Sanders! ” 

Feet were accommodated to the rhythm. While 
those in front pursued their eager quest, wrenching 
open doors and shouting their ferocious inquiry among 
shrinking passengers, the crowded masses behind trod 
out the measure with hobnailed boots crashing in unison 
with vibrant throats. 

“ We — want — Tug — Sanders! ” 

“ We — want — Tug — Sanders! ” 

It was rather frightening to hear. 

Mr. Tug Sanders heard it and stood not upon the 
order of his going but went at once. He had been 
warned; and he had arrived alert to pay behest to the 
warning. At the junction forty miles up the line there 
had been handed to him a telegram from the Tid- 
borough Superintendent of Police. 

“ Very hostile crowd assembled at station. 

You are advised to leave train by up-side door. ,, 

One glimpse as the train drew into Tidborough had 
been quite enough for Mr. Sanders, a man of notably 
quick perceptions. The 4.5 was not come to complete 
stop before the famous strike-breaker was nimbly out 
of the further door of his compartment and fleeting 
across the rails in purposeful testimony to the great 
law of self-preservation. 

Safety first. 

The 4.5 drew out. To the tumult of the ravening 
strikers she had added her own enormous din of escap¬ 
ing steam. Now, as they realised disappointment and 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 229 

bafflement, she whooped sardonic comment upon them 
from her whistle and slid enormously away to her own 
business, leaving them to theirs. Very quickly the plat¬ 
form cleared. Disappointed of its prey, returned to 
the hard facts of the lock-out, the mob took counsel 
with itself, and presently announced its judgment in 
loud shouts of “ To the Old Man’s! To the Old 
Man’s! ” At six o’clock the Old Man — Mr. Bassett 
— was to receive a deputation. Any hopes concerning 
it had been dissolved when it became known that he 
would first receive Mr. Tug Sanders; and the famous 
strike-breaker, it was now rumoured, had arrived, given 
them the slip, and was well on his way to the Old Man’s 
house. It commended itself to the strikers to assemble 
about the Old Man’s gates and hear the result immedi¬ 
ately their deputation left the presence. They shambled 
into a marching formation and moved away, slouching, 
silent, dangerous. 

Upon the station platform meanwhile there had been 
reproduced the best-known fable of Phaedrus. “ A 
mountain was in labour, sending forth dreadful groans, 
and there was in the region the highest expectation. 
After all, it brought forth an absurd mouse.” 

The 4.5, when it drew out, instead of leaving upon 
the platform the colossal personality expected of it, 
grotesquely deposited only the tiny figure of a little 
girl. Her hair was bobbed (this, by the way, was some 
years ago when bobbing was uncommon), her face 
was pale, her eyes were large. She had a small tin box 
and she carried a large satchel; and she stood there, 
looking extraordinarily tiny and quaint till a porter, 


2 3 o THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

detaching himself from watching the departing strikers, 
observed her and came towards her. This porter knew 
nothing of Latin tags relative to a mountain bringing 
forth a mouse — he had never been to school — but 
it struck him as odd, the mighty personage that had 
been expected and the tiny object that had been left, and 
he rather grinned as he advanced to her. 

“ Now then, missy, what’s for you? ” 

The little girl said primly, “ Good afternoon, porter. 
If you please, I want a hansom cab and she'added, 
as if she apprehended a thought in his mind, “ You 
must understand I am quite accustomed to hansom 
cabs and allowed to go in them, because I come from 
London. There are simply millions of hansom cabs in 
London, you know.” 

The porter, being entirely unaccustomed to children, 
was able to treat them just as they like being treated. 
“ That so? ” he said seriously. 

“ Oh, millions. Have you ever been to London ? ” 

The porter had not had this advantage. 

“ You ought to ask the station-master to let you go 
one day. It’s a most wonderful place, you know. My 
dear Aunt Victoria says the City of London is the hub¬ 
bub of the Empire.” 

“That so?” said the porter. 

The little girl nodded in vigorous confirmation. 

“ And it is noisy! ” 

She was in stature scarcely at the level of the porter’s 
waist, but in her singular self-possession and primness 
she was completely the dominant partner in these ex¬ 
changes; and she now, by a glance towards the exits 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 231 

and a gesture of her shoulders, quite clearly instructed 
the porter that the requirements of polite interchange 
were fulfilled, and that his duties must now be at¬ 
tended. 

He swung up her box in one horny fist and again 
obeying a gesture extended the other towards her. She 
took it and gave the explanation she seemed to think 
necessary. “ You see, I’m only eight,” she said, “ and 
in railway stations I always hold my dear mamma’s 
hand.” 

“Ain’t your mamma come with you then?” in¬ 
quired the porter. 

Her reply caused him to look sharply down at her, 
trotting by his side. 

“ Oh, no. You see, my dear mamma is dead.” 

The brim of her hat permitted the porter to see only 
the lower part of her face. He caught a quick protru¬ 
sion and withdrawal of her lips. He felt awkward. 

“ Ah, dear, dear! ” he said. 

“ She’s with God,” said the little girl, and most for¬ 
lornly sighed. 

“ That so? ” said the porter. 

He felt immediately — he was a man of rather deli¬ 
cate perceptions (for a porter) — that this was an inept 
remark, but he had been rather taken aback and it had 
been jerked out of him on the rebound (as he might 
have explained it). To cover it, and to get well away 
from it, he said in a changed and hearty voice, “ And 
where .might you be making to now, missy? ” 

“ I’m going to my dear Uncle Henry.” 


232 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

‘‘That so?” said the porter. “And what might 
your uncle’s name be, missy? ” 

The little girl replied, rather as if she had learnt it 
by heart, “ My dear Uncle Henry is Henry Bassett, 
Esquire, The Old Court House, near Penny Green, Tid- 
borough.” 

The porter whistled. The thing — the coincidence 
— was so completely astounding to him that he had 
no words to suit it. He felt dazed, and in dazed silence 
he led the way into the station yard. Three or four 
hansom cabs were in waiting. He hailed one, and as 
it came jingling up (the little girl watching it with 
an ecstatic air of much approving proprietorship) pre¬ 
pared to hand on his amazement to its driver. 

He swung up her box, the driver stiffly reaching 
tightly overcoated arms for it: “ Wherever don’t you 
think this fare’s bound for ? ” 

The driver, who was no public speaker, vouchsafed 
only the surly grunt of one to whom the vagaries of 
fares were as nothing. But for the porter’s reply he 
clearly was not prepared. 

“ Old Bassett’s,” said the porter. 

The driver jerked up his head. “ Not on your life ? 
He had a very deep, suspicious voice and a very small, 
beery and suspicious eye. “ Not on your life she 
ain’t?” 

“ Ask of her, than,” affirmed the porter with the 
pride of one that has released a startler. He looked 
towards the little girl. She was standing by the 
horse’s head, her hands clasped in ecstatic adoration. 
•‘ Calls ’im her dear Uncle Henry.” 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 233 

“ Not on your life she don’t? ” 

The porter nodded impressively. “ Said it to me 
with her own lips right there on the platform.” He 
pointed towards the platform and the driver stood up 
where he sat and looked earnestly towards it as if to 
see what explanation of this astounding circumstance 
it might have to offer. “ There was they,” said the 
porter, thoroughly well pleased with himself, “ there 
was they waiting for this yer strike-breaker, and there’s 
the strike-breaker as has come and — ” He broke off, 
for the little girl had turned from the horse and was 
approaching him, her fingers in her purse. 

“ Thank you, porter,” she addressed him. “ That’s 
very nice. Here is threepence for you. Just lift me 
up to the step, will you. And in case, porter, any of 
the four-wheelers are annoyed I took a hansom, just 
tell them, please, it’s because I like to watch the horse.” 
She was on the footboard of the cab and she caught the 
driver’s small and suspicious eye astoundingly regard¬ 
ing her over the roof; but with the air of one doing 
the correct thing she ignored his eye and gave her in¬ 
struction to the porter. “ I’ll tell the man where to go 
from inside.” 

“ I’ve told him, missy,” said the porter. 

She was working herself on to the seat, sitting on 
her legs tucked beneath her. She said reprovingly, 
“ But I still will, if you don’t mind. My dear mamma 
always tells him from the inside when he looks through 
the little hole in the top.” 

“ That so ? ” said the porter and stepped back and 


234 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

stared upon the driver with eyes that asked, “ Did you 
ever? ” 

A yellow eye now gazed lambently down upon the 
little girl through the roof-trap. She addressed it, 
“ If you please, I am going to my dear Uncle Henry; 
to Henry Bassett, Esquire, The Old Court House, near 
Penny Green, Tidborough. What’s your horse’s 
name ? ” 

The eyes of the porter on the pavement said, “ Ah, 
now it’s your turn! ” The yellow eye of the driver, 
raised in astonishment from the trap, gazed first upon 
his horse, then upon the porter, and then inside his hat, 
lifted for that purpose as though with some expectation 
of finding the horse’s name there written. A great 
difficulty faced the driver and it was that the only name 
by which he ever called his horse was, “ Blast Yer ” — 
“ Get up, blast yer. Now then, blast yer. Whoa, blast 
yer.” 

He was, however, though a slowish man, a man of 
resource. A powerful aroma of beer descended upon 
the little girl. “ What name would you like him to be 
called, lady?” 

She twisted up her face to the beer vent. “ I should 
like him to be called Black Beauty.” 

“ That’s what he is called,” said the driver hoarsely. 

“ Although he’s brown? ” said the little girl quickly. 

The driver raised his head and blew an enormous 
discharge of beery fumes across the top of his cab. 

“ Hoo-oo-oo-ff! ” He gazed despairingly at the porter 
but saw no sympathy there. He again applied his face 
to the trap. “ ’Is mane’s black, lady, an’ ’is tail.” 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 235 

“ So they are ! So they are! ” cried the little girl and 
struck her hands together. “ Do you mind if I click 
him off?” 

“ Not a bit, lady,” said the driver, relieved. 

“ T’ck! T’ck! ” clicked the little girl. “ Gee up, 
Black Beauty! ” 

The driver thought hard, though slowly, during the 
long drive to the Old Court House. He was in violent 
sympathy with the strikers and entertained a violent 
opinion of Henry Bassett; and in the fuddled way in 
which, consequent upon his chief interest in life, the 
processes of his mind worked, he had a sullen notion 
that he was playing false to the strikers by permitting 
a relative of the hated Bassett in his cab. The notion 
swelled to a head as the cab overtook, passed through 
and left the ranks of the marchers. He was cogitating 
some remarks to the little girl on the subject of her 
uncle when the roof-trap was agitated from beneath and 
he raised it and looked down. 

The little girl, who had climbed upright to get at the 
trap, was resettling herself upon her curled-up legs. 
“ I just wanted to say,” she said, “ please flick those flies 
off Black Beauty’s ears. Thank you. You must watch 
for them, you know. Where were all those men go¬ 
ing to? ” 

The question was pleasant to the driver. He had 
the feeling, cumulative upon his attitude towards the 
strikers, that his horse must be thinking him a fool 
or gone mad thus finickingly to apply the lash he cus¬ 
tomarily used with all his arm behind it. He said with 


236 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

harsh emphasis, “ They’re going to see your dear 
uncle.” 

“Are they? ” cried the little girl. “ Is it a party? ” 

“ Party? 99 growled the driver, “ Party? 99 

“ You’ve been drinking beer, haven’t you? ” said the 
little girl. 

“ Yes, lady,” said the driver, and closed the trap. 

The Old Court House was approached by massive 
iron gates and a short drive. The front door stood 
within cavernous portals in which the little girl, stand¬ 
ing before it, looked rather like a fly at the bottom of 
a large teacup. The driver, descending, rang for her 
the bell-pull which depended like a giant’s club far above 
her head, climbed to his perch and gathered up his reins. 

“ For the less I sees of these ’ere, lady,” said the 
driver, “ the better I feels.” 

“ When I’m not feeling very well,” said the little 
girl, “ my dear mamma gives me syrup of figs.” 

The driver withdrew himself. 

A very tall, thin man with the appearance of having 
been baked dry in an oven opened the door and looked 
all about him till the little girl coughed, when he looked 
towards his boots and observed her. 

“If you please,” said the little girl, “ I’ve come to 
stay with my dear uncle.” 

Stupefaction took voice within the tall man. “ Come 
to stay with your dear uncle ? ” he repeated. “ Come to 
stay with — ” 

“ Yes, thank you,” said the little girl and stepped over 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 237 

the threshold and began very industriously to wipe her 
feet on the mat. 

The man stared down with the air of one watching 
an astounding and uncanny phenomenon. “ Is it Mr. 
Bassett you mean ? ” 

“ Excuse my not answering before,” said the little 
girl after a pause in which her feet continued vigor¬ 
ously to work. “ I go nine times with each foot and 
have to count. How many times do you go? ” 

“ I’m afraid I couldn’t quite say as to that,” said the 
tall man. With the porter and the driver he found 
himself as it were mesmerically overpowered. 

The little girl regarded him interestedly. “ I sup¬ 
pose it’s a habit with you. My dear mamma says that 
in time it becomes a habit and then you stop counting. 
Do you do the backs of your heels like this or like 
this?” 

“ I’m afraid I couldn’t quite say as to that, miss,” 
said the tall man. He cleared his throat. “ I was in¬ 
quiring, miss, if it was Mr. Bassett you meant for your 
uncle ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the little girl. “ My dear Uncle 
Henry. It couldn’t be either of my other dear uncles, 
you see — my dear Uncle Barnabus or my dear Uncle 
William — because my dear mamma says they’re not 
on speaking terms with my dear Uncle Henry, so they 
couldn’t be here, could they? ” 

“ I’m afraid I couldn’t quite say as to that, miss,” 
said the tall man. “ I don’t seem to recollect the gentle¬ 
men.” He made an uncertain motion towards the in¬ 
terior of the hall. “ What name might it be, miss? ” 


238 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

“ Lucy,” said the little girl. “ What’s yours? ” 

“ Cleggs, miss,” said the tall man, speaking, like the 
porter, on the rebound of surprise. He hesitated, but 
as the little girl appeared willing to accept this without 
comment, he drifted uncertainly up the hall and, knock¬ 
ing discreetly, passed through a doorway. 

The proprietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills sat at a 
writing table, fingering some papers and looking the 
man impervious to any reasoning but his own, the 
solitary and embittered man with a grudge against all 
men, the man proud to the marrow and hard to the 
bone, that he was reputed to be and that unquestionably 
he was. His clean-shaven face was the setting of eyes 
that were like dull grey stones, hard and cold as such, 
and that appeared to be lidless, so fixed their gaze; and 
of a mouth whose lips were tightly pressed together as 
though he held something upon his tongue. 

He looked up and spoke in an austere voice as of one 
pronouncing a judgment. “If that’s the deputation, 
Cleggs — ” 

Cleggs began, “ I beg your pardon, sir, it’s — ” and 
turned at something that was pushing like a dog against 
his legs. 

“ I can’t quite get past you,” said the little girl in her 
high, clear voice. “ Thank you. Didn’t you know I 
was just behind you when you stopped?” She ad¬ 
vanced to the writing table. “ Are you my dear Uncle 
Henry?” 

“ Who are you? ” demanded Mr. Bassett. He might 
have been addressing a burglar. 

“ I’m your little niece, Lucy.” 


239 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

Mr. Bassett set his hands upon the arms of his chair 
and appeared to constrict them. “ Lucy’s child! ” He 
turned his hard glance sharply across the room. “ Get 
out of here,” he said to Cleggs. He said to the little 
girl very roughly, “ What nonsense is this ? Where do 
you come from? ” 

“ From London. I’ve come to stay with you. Have 
you got something in your mouth? ” 

“ It will be time for you to ask questions,” said Mr. 
Bassett, “ and not rude or stupid questions, when you 
have answered mine.” 

“ Thank you,” said the little girl. “ I only asked 
because you hold your lips pressed up like I hold mine 
when I have codliver oil and can’t bear to swallow it. 
What was your question? ” 

“ My question was what nonsense is this? Where is 
your mother? ” 

The little girl swallowed before she spoke. “ My 
dear Uncle Henry, please don’t cry but be brave. My 
dear mamma is dead.” 

The proprietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills said, “ Lucy 
— dead! ” 

“ She’s with God,” said the little girl and sighed 
again the enormous sigh heard by the porter. “Im 
not to cry, and I haven’t — feel my handkerchief.” 

The proprietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills disregarded 
the invitation. “ When did she die? ” 

“ On Tuesday.” 

“ Who was there? ” 

“ Only me.” 

“ Where was she buried? ” 


240 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

“ At Kensal Green.” 

“ Who was there? ” 

“ Only me.” 

The little girl's lips were swiftly protruded and with¬ 
drawn. “ I find if I pinch my nose it's a great help,” 
she said. “ I think I will.” 

It was a little pathetic; on the stage or in the best 
stories a tear would have stolen down Mr. Bassett’s 
grim, cold cheek and the rest would be easy. It is 
lovely but it is not life. It doesn’t really happen. Con¬ 
sider the most curmudgeonly old man you know — 
your employer or your own wealthy uncle — and ask 
yourself if any such news as the death of his one-time 
favourite sister would immediately cause him to vio¬ 
late the characteristics of a lifetime and soften like a 
pound of butter in the sun. You know perfectly well 
that nothing less than a poleaxe would soften him. 
It was the same here. No tear stole down Mr. Bassett’s 
grim, cold cheek. He did not so much as wince. As 
a child he had been devotedly attached to his sister 
Lucy. In youth she had kept house for him. He had 
quarrelled violently and tyrannically with her; and the 
hard but human fact is that his childhood’s affections 
and the impulses of his youth were screwed and bat¬ 
tened down beneath forty years of brass-bound, 
water-proofed, steel-enforced, iron-clamped, triple- 
locked self-interest. 

He did not even wince. “ Only you,” he said solidly. 
“ Only you? Your uncles, your aunt, they were in 
touch with her, where were they ? ” 

The little girl was still pinching the bridge of her 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


241 


nose. “If you can see any tears,” she announced, “ it’s 
the pinching. My dear Aunt Victoria and my dear 
uncles said it was most unfortunate for them, but you 
can’t put off a wedding just because any one is ill; and 
afterwards my dear aunt came and explained you 
couldn’t put it off for a funeral. It was my dear Cousin 
Kate’s wedding, and my dear Uncle William said it 
was a most important catch — no, match. Would it 
be catch or match ? ” 

“ Catch, if I know my dear sister Victoria,” said Mr. 
Bassett. 

“ A most important catch,” continued the little girl, 
“ and it would have looked so strange if they weren’t 
there. And my dear Uncle Barnabas said it was most 
unfortunate being the same day and-” 

“ Ah, like them, like them! ” interpolated the pro¬ 
prietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills. “ I can see them; I 
can hear them! ” 

“ Can you? ” said the little girl, and stood on tiptoe 
and looked along the line of her uncle’s sight. 

He laughed. 

He laughed and — listen to this — it was his laugh, 
and no groan, that did actually cause a stir and a creak¬ 
ing of the massy baulks beneath which, like soft green 
leaves pressed dry and skeletonized in a book, his child¬ 
hood’s generous qualities lay. He laughed. His 
thought was, “ What an idea! What a child! What a 
thing to be so ingenuously simple as that! Imagine it, 
if one could be a child like that? Ay, me, if one 
could! ” 

He laughed, and somewhere deep within him a 



242 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


twinge responded. He laughed; and all the new little 
fairies of the same term as the fairy with the rosy 
mouth (who of course had got into Mr. Bassett’s heart 
and had caused the twinge) stood on tiptoe with excite¬ 
ment where they watched on the wide steps of fairy¬ 
land. “If only she can get him laughing! ” cried all 
the new little fairies and hopped and skipped in their 
little gauze combinations. “If only she can! ” 

All Mr. Bassett said, snapping off the laugh, was, 
“Where were you living—in lodgings? ” 

The little girl nodded. “ In our lodgings, yes. Do 
you know ” — she put a hand on the table in the mo¬ 
tion of calling particular attention — “ Do you know, 
our landlady’s grown-up daughter was in the panto¬ 
mime. She was! She was in the fourth row and her 
mother said she would have been in the front row only 
she had thin legs on her father’s side. Which side of 
you is your father’s side ? ” 

He laughed again, this time a full and free laugh; 
and all the little fairies hugged themselves for joy and 
cried “Hush! Hush!” to one another and tiptoed 
again. 

“ Well, you’re all on your mother’s side,” he said, 

“ if that’s any explanation to you.” And he ended 
again, to himself, “ Ay, me!” — not because he was 
thinking of her mother, for he was not, but because * 
he was thinking of himself. And though pages might 
be written of what he was thinking of himself, they 
might with equal clearness and poignancy (for those 
who suddenly glimpse something they have lost) be 
written just as he expressed it — “ Ay, me! ” 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


243 


He said to her, “ Do you know, when you walked 
in at that door just now you were about as likely to 
stay and live here as Cleggs is to stand on his head.” 

“ Can he ? ” cried the little girl, enormously in¬ 
terested. 

“ You’d better ask him. But suppose you do stay 
here? What an idea! How could you? There’d be 
all sorts of difficulties.” 

The little girl seemed quite to appreciate this. He 
was frowning over certain of the difficulties, and she 
reflected his frown. “ There’d be my back to wash,” 
she said. 

He laughed quite easily. “ That particular diffi¬ 
culty hadn’t occurred to me. I daresay we could get 
over that.” 

“ Well, I can do everything else for myself. It’s 
only my back when I have my bath.” 

He was not really thinking of practical difficulties. 
Practical difficulties never stood in the way of the pro¬ 
prietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills; that was why he 
was so rich and so hated. The difficulties he was think¬ 
ing of were his affections for his habits. All very well 
to have this little girl in the house and to have around 
him always this — this freshness, this newness; but 
how about giving up his accustomed mode of life and 
his accustomed outlook on life, and the bearing and the 
behaviour in life that his fellow-men were accustomed 
to see in him? Forty years habituated in it. Forty 
years — ay, me! But still — 

But he kept up the pretence of practical difficulties. 
“ How about lessons ? Don’t you have to do lessons ? ” 


244 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

It was the merest dalliance; but all the little fairies 
hugged themselves anew to hear him dallying. “ He’ll 
go too far in a moment! ” cried all the little fairies, 
jumping in their little combinations. 

“ My dear mamma did me my lessons,” said the little 
girl. “I can show you and you can do me them, be¬ 
cause, do you know, I’ve got the very books that you 
and my dear mamma used when you were little like me. 
They’ve got your marks in them. I’ve got them here.” 

She took from a chair the satchel she had brought 
with her and put it on the table. “ There was no room 
in my box,” said the little girl. She pulled out small 
and battered volumes. “ There they are. Do you re¬ 
member them ? ” 

“ I remember them,” he said; and at his tone, “ Oh, 
poor thing!” cried all the little fairies. 

The little girl had opened one of the books and was 
turning over the leaves before him. “ Look, those are 
your marks when you were learning. Your dear 
mamma used to put the dates every day and so did 
mine.” 

He rather stolidly regarded the thumbed pages, his 
mother’s pencil marks, the old-fashioned wood-cuts and 
the little readings in huge print. He was not touched 
by it all as, on the stage or in the best stories, he would 
have been touched. What he felt was a strange but 
unmistakable delight in the funny little old book with 
its grotesquely pious and moral tales. His sole read¬ 
ing was the Times and the Financial Times. This stuff 
was delicious! And once it had thrilled him! “ Ay, 

me!” 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 245 

The little girl thought he must have finished the page 
at which he was staring. “ That was your reading 
book,” she said. “ My dear mamnja says you and she 
both simply loved it. There was one page — a poetry 
page — she said you couldn’t understand. I’ll show 
you.” 

She flattened before him a page conspicuously white 
compared with the finger-stained others; obviously sel¬ 
dom read. It had three stiff wood-cuts: a small urchin 
sporting after a butterfly; a young man walking a path 
and looking at a bird above him, presumably in song; 
a middle-aged man seated on a bench in the attitude of 
reflection. 

He remembered the pictures perfectly. His eyes 
read the verse accompanying them: 

“ Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the growing boy, 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows 
He sees it in his joy; 

The youth, who daily further from the East 
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, 

And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended; 

At length the man perceives it die away, 

And fade into the light of common day. 

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 

Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? ” 

It was unfair. The proprietor of Bassett’s Paper 
Mills was smitten between the joints of his harness. 
There must be a hiatus. He is as entitled as any other 
citizen to suffer his wound unobserved in the privacy 


246 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

of his own room. He was forty years deep in the 
prison; forty years from the glory and forty years from 
the dream; and he was in the company of a little girl 
upon whom no shades of the prison-house had yet 
descended, which rather intensified and showed up his 
condition. Why expose his thoughts ? 

The little girl waited an enormously long time for 
him to speak. Her own thoughts, stoutly kept away 
by trains, porters, hansom cabs, drivers, and uncles, 
crowded upon her while she waited. 

At last she said, “ Do you understand that poetry 
page now, Uncle ? ” 

He said rather heavily, “ I understand it.” He 
turned in his chair towards her. “ You’re going to 
stay with me all right. What would you like to do — 
first ? ” 

The little girl said, “ I’d like — most awfully — to 
cry.” 

(“ Look out! Look out! ” cried all the little fairies.) 

The proprietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills extended his 
hands to her. 

She said, “ Do you think my dear mamma would 
mind?” 

The proprietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills swallowed 
something. “ She’ll know I said you might.” 

The little girl’s face began to work with extra¬ 
ordinary convulsions. 

He opened his arms to her. 

“ That’s done it! That’s done it! ” cried all the 
little fairies and hopped and skipped in their little com¬ 
binations about the floor of fairyland. 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


247 


The little girl sobbed with an abandonment to grief 
utter, complete, enormous, devastating. Every fibre 
and particle of her small body seemed to contribute 
to the abandonment. It was like a universal capitula¬ 
tion of all her parts rushing to the call of one stream 
as river banks to a flood. Her face was buried in the 
shoulder of the proprietor of Bassett’s Paper Mills. 
He had never seen anything like such grief. He never 
had imagined that anything like it could be. Once or 
twice she cried, “ My dear mamma! My dear mamma! ” 
He put an awkward hand to her head and stroked it 
and held her rather tight. 

And beneath the catastrophic collapse of her emotions 
he was himself undergoing a huge and monstrous 
capitulation, a washing out, a surging up from under, 
that the little twinges when he laughed at her had be¬ 
gun. He began to suffer the extraordinary feeling 
that he was not so much holding her as himself holding 
on to her. He was thinking all kinds of things. The 
only thing that, in decency to him, need be reported, 
was the thought, “ This infernal strike! That’s in the 
way! Infernal thing! ” Also this thought, “ It’s time 
to get out of it. Turn it into a company. Getting too 
old. Don’t understand these new ideas about work¬ 
people. Get out of it. Potter about — with this 
scrap.” And again, “ This infernal strike! In the way! 
Infernal thing! ” 

The violence of her passionate sorrow ran its course. 
It ebbed away in long heaves, little shudders. He sat 
her upright on his knee and with a handkerchief wiped 
her eyes. “ Feel better? Better now, eh? ” 


248 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

He put the handkerchief in his pocket. “ Look here. 
I expect you’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t 
you? ” 

She nodded. She couldn’t quite as yet get words. 

“ There’re some people waiting here to see me. 
Cleggs has been in and out of the room while you’ve 
been having your cry. I want you just to go in and say 
something to them for me, will you ? ” 

She nodded again. Her sniffs would have made a 
vacuum-cleaner feel jealous. But she brightened very 
much at the idea of a thing to do. She nodded more 
vigorously. “ Is it the p-party? ” 

“ You might call it a party.” He set her on her feet. 
“ They’re in the room straight opposite across the hall. 
Just go in and say to them from me ” — he told her 
what to say. “ Can you remember that ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. It sounds funny to me. Will they un¬ 
derstand ? ” 

“ You see! Well, perhaps — look, if they don’t, give 
them this.” He wrote on a slip of paper and handed it 
to her. 

Six persons awaited the little girl. The strikers’ 
deputation consisted of four men and two women. 
They sat along one side of the table in the great dining¬ 
room on chairs arranged for them by Cleggs and they 
sat silently with rather sad, anxious eyes fixed on the 
door. Have you ever seen the eyes of bullocks look¬ 
ing out through the gates of a slaughter house? They 
had been kept waiting a long time and they boded no 
good from the delay. That strike-breaker! 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


249 

The handle of the door turned slowly. “ Oh, my 
God! ” said one of the women. 

The door, instead of opening very wide to admit 
the master, opened but a few inches. The little girl 
slid in through the aperture and turned and stood on 
tiptoe to put both hands to the handle and shut it again. 

The deputation simply stared. 

The little girl came up to the table and looked over 
it. “ If you please,” she said, “ my dear uncle says 
your terms are granted.” 

The deputation simply stared. 

The little girl nodded in a friendly way. “ Yes, your 
terms are granted. That’s what my dear uncle told me 
to tell you.” 

They were all on their feet. 

“ Granted! ” cried one; and “ Granted! ” another. 

The woman who had made the exclamation as the 
door began to open came quickly round the table and 
struck her hands together upon her shrunken bosom be¬ 
fore the little girl. “ Dearie, you wouldn’t deceive. 
Dearie, for the love of God — ” 

“There’s this paper,” said the little girl, surprised, 
for she had never been to a party like this before. 

The paper went to the hands of an old man who had 
had the centre place at the table. He read it aloud in a 
trembling voice: 

“ Your terms are granted. The works will open in 
all departments at 6.0 a.m., to-morrow. The new 
scale will take effect forthwith. 

Henry Bassett. 

N. B. Furnaceman should attend at 4.0 a.m.” 


250 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

The old man dropped heavily on his chair and put 
his arms on the table and buried his head in them. 
Some one said, “ Praise God! — Praise God! ” The 
woman facing the little girl dropped on her knees and 
clasped the little girl terribly to her heart. The little 
fairies on the wide steps of fairyland skipped and 
crowed with glee. “ Did you ever! ” cried all the little 
fairies and snapped their pink little fingers and thumbs, 
and skipped and crowed again, and slid off helter-skelter 
on sunbeams to welcome the little fairy with the rosy 
mouth, coming back triumphant. 

That should end the story, and on the stage or in 
the best stories would end it. But, annoyingly but 
truthfully, not here. The real end of the story came, 
like the beginning, at Tidborough railway station. 

Mr. Tug Sanders had spent an unprofitable, but very 
jumpy, afternoon, partly in shelter at the police station, 
and partly hovering timidly out of view of the crowd 
that stood about Mr. Bassett’s residence waiting for the 
news. The famous strike-breaker made three attempts 
to penetrate the crowd and reach the house, but each 
time his courage failed him and he retreated. He dared 
not. He took himself away — well away — and wan¬ 
dered the country lanes till the seven o’clock up-train 
should be due. The time came and there came with it 
to Mr. Sanders a very great alarm. Sneaking furtively 
through the streets he was frozen to discover the mar¬ 
ket square, through which he must pass, filled with a 
yelling, rushing and madly excited crowd of strikers. 
His hat positively lifted from his head upon his starting 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 


251 

scalp. He pulled it over his eyes and tremulously 
threaded his way into the mob. 

He was well known. His photograph had been in 
every paper. He had not made fifty yards to the station 
when he was discovered and his name roared into the 
welkin. He was seized. He closed his eyes and set 
his teeth for the hideous end of being torn to death. 
Lo, he was raised shoulder high. He was held aloft 
and was being borne aloft to the station. Thunderous 
roars hymned him on. “ Good old Tug Sanders! Good 
old Tuggy! Three cheers for good old Tuggy — and 
another — and another — and another! ” Hundreds 
pressed forward to touch his hand. Mothers held up 
their children to him. Women fought with his car¬ 
riers to throw their arms about him and kiss him. 
Girls threw flowers. 

Dumfounded; amazed; speechless; in a dream; dead 
and in another world; the superb and magnificent strike¬ 
breaker found himself in a compartment of the up- 
express and leaning from the window and regarding 
with a sickly and fatuous grin the tossing mob that 
tumultuously surged before him, adoring him. His 
shattered ears had informed him that the strike was 
ended, the men victorious, but what on earth — ? What 
the dickens — ? ” 

His sickly and fatuous grin was all he could achieve. 

“ Ah, ain’t ’e modest! ” cried a stout lady perched on 
the platform bookstall for better view of the adored 
countenance. “ Ah, if ’e ain’t modest as ’e is noble, the 
darling.” 

She then overbalanced and fell off. 


252 THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 

Simultaneously the train started. What a shout! 
What a very delirium of ecstatic cheering;! The 
local brass band, tearing up at the double, and as the 
Tidborough County Times said on the morrow, “ at the 
psychological moment,” fixed their instruments with 
lightning speed. With heartfelt throats the crowd took 
up the well-known tune. Slowly the stupendous strike¬ 
breaker, leaning from the window, smiling his modest, 
sickly smile, waving his modest lackadaisical hand (he 
felt it was the least he could do), slowly he was drawn 
away to the impassioned song, hymned from five hun¬ 
dred throats: 

“ For he’s a jolly good fellow! ” 

It was tremendous. Strong men wept, and well they 
might. In the words of the Tidborough County Times, 
“ It was a sublime and deeply moving moment.” 

The stupendous strike-breaker drew in his head and 
wiped his streaming brow. “ Co-oo-ooh! ” gasped the 
stupendous strike-breaker. 

“ Sir,” said an aged gentleman of evangelical ap¬ 
pearance seated in the carriage, “ Sir, this is the most 
glorious day in the history of Tidborough. Sir, you 
are noble! You are noble, sir, and you are enshrined 
forever in the hearts of this great city. You are noble, 
sir.” 

“ Oh, well,” said the noble strike-breaker. “ Oh, 
well,” and sat down, dazed, and tried to look noble what 
time he thought, “ What the dickens — ? ” 

“ But that’s not fair,” cried the new little fairy with 


THERE STILL ARE FAIRIES 253 

the rosy mouth, peeping. “ That’s not fair! Why, it 
wasn’t anything to do with him at all! ” 

“ Tish and tush! ” said the elderly fairy with the 
grim, stern look. “Tish and tush, that’s nothing! 
That’s nothing to what they do down there sometimes. 
What does it matter, you stupid little scrap, you? Just 
look at Henry Bassett with little Lucy. Stand on this 
sunbeam.” 







IN EVENING BELLS 






















IN EVENING BELLS 


He said his name was Angell. 

It was dusk; it was Sunday. Beyond the wood in 
which I walked, and a harvest field beyond that, was 
a church; and across the distance, just reaching me and 
no more, as to high-water mark just steals the tide on 
a very calm day, there came the bells for evening 
service; and I thought of Hodgson’s line: 

“ What sound is that in evening bells a harvest 
field away ? ” 

What sound? My mood was troubled. There is a 
certain depression of spirits that some have and it was 
upon me. It is not of one’s affairs. It is of vexations 
that are private, that are secret; a sense that not your¬ 
self is to blame though it is you to bear; a sense of 
unfairness in others though you are fair; a sense that 
your world, but not through you, is out of joint, selfish, 
unkind. 

It was upon me, this heavy infelicity, and there was 
in my ears that distant murmur of those bells and in my 
mind a musing on the line that I have given; and it 
was thus that I stepped into a clearing of the wood and 
saw him and approached him where he sat. 

He said his name was Angell. 

Have I said it was dusk ? Among those trees, as in 


IN EVENING BELLS 


258 

my mind’s oppression, it deeper was than dusk. Here 
in this glade where I discovered him it was light with 
a pale, a pearl, grey light. Yet it was strangely dim. 
It was as if — I only can describe it as I felt it — as 
if there visibly were here light that invisibly was ob¬ 
scured; as if my eyes were closed and I was conscious 
through-their lids of brightness, as if between me and 
the light a glass filmed over stood. “ As in a glass 
darkly ” the thought came to me; and with the thought 
it happened that he looked up at me, giving me (it was 
natural) the conclusion of my thought, “ But now face 
to face”; and curiously the veil that had been was 
lifted; and strangely the place was light. 

I would have said (but I would have thought it, 
then, absurd to say) that it was his face, thus suddenly 
turned to me, that lightened the pearl-grey dimness 
of the place; but I will term it in this way (as indeed 
it was) that the aspect of his face was of an extraor¬ 
dinary attraction to me; and I had been troubled; 
and there stirred within my trouble as it were an in¬ 
stinct, telling me companionship was here, a sympathy, 
an understanding. Wherefore I thought to myself 
that it was the lifting, not of the material dimness, but 
of my inward oppression, that caused his face to seem 
to light the place, and thus I reconciled the tinge of 
doubt, the certain awe, that the strange strengthening 
of the light caused in me. 

Nevertheless, disturbed, I stood and looked at him. 

He smiled; and the attraction he had for me quick¬ 
ened and bade me on; and I went forward; and he 
spoke. 


IN EVENING BELLS 


259 


He said his name was Angell. 

He was some yards from me, seated upon the trunk 
of a felled tree. Greeting me and telling me his name, 
his voice to reach me where I had emerged from the 
thicket should have been raised. It did not seem to 
me to be raised; it came to me on a gentle, a curious in¬ 
flexion that vaguely was familiar to me; but my greater 
interest at the moment was the odd courtesy of his nam¬ 
ing himself to me, and for the immediate remark I 
had had on my lips I substituted the return of his com¬ 
pliment; then, coming forward to join him where he 
sat, I made my observation. 

“ The light here,” I said; ‘‘isn’t there something 
strange, unusual, about it? ” 

He put out a hand towards me and smiled. He was 
a young man. His features, his uncovered brow, the 
poise of his head upon his neck, were singularly beauti¬ 
ful. He was uncommonly tall; he had about him some 
kind of cloak of grey; but it did not, nor did his seated 
posture, disguise his length of limb. “ Nothing strange 
in the light,” he said, and drew down his extended hand 
and placed it, in invitation to be seated, on the tree be¬ 
side him. “ It is the faculty of seeing it that is not 
usual,” he said, and I thought he sighed. 

“If you are right,” I agreed, “ it is certain that 
for my own part I have never till now used the faculty.” 

He replied, and again in his tone I caught that gentle, 
that curiously familiar inflexion, “ ‘ As a lamp despised 
in the mind of him that is at ease.’ ” 

I relish a good quotation and this one vaguely I 
could place. 


26 o 


IN EVENING BELLS 


“ From the Bible? ” I questioned. 

He said, “ Down here you call it Job.” 

“ Down here? You are not of these parts, then? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ A foreigner?” 

“ I come from a very far-off place,” he said. 

Where had I heard his voice? What in its cadence 
was familiar to me ? There was a silence fell between 
us, only the sweet, remote and gentle murmur of those 
bells. Murmur? They had an echo’s sound, a dying 
fall. Echo of what? I had a feeling of strange in¬ 
fluences about me. I heard myself say, “ Those 
bells — ” 

He said, “ Tell me.” 

I told him that I was walking in those parts, resting 
two nights in the village there, and on the previous day 
had met the vicar and had learnt of him an odd practice 
he had with the bells of his little church, namely to ring 
them, not only for his services — “ As now,” I said, 
and indicated with my hand their distant murmur — but 
at his services’ conclusion; “As presently,” I said. 
“ His welcome and his God-speed bells, the old man 
called them.” 

There sounded as I stopped one clearer note from 
out the murmur of the bells. 

“ Well named,” said Angell, and there came to me, 
causing me an odd sensation, as from a stealthy move¬ 
ment in a darkened room, the clue to what had been 
familiar in his voice. It had the cadence of those 
distant bells. I had caught that single clearer note; 


IN EVENING BELLS 261 

his soft “ Well named ” seemed, as it were, to have 
depended from it. 

Strange! But, no, it could be only fancy. I shook 
away the thought. “ A very good old man, that vicar,” 
I continued; “one of the happy ones”; and I went 
on to talk to Angell of the stories that I make from 
faces and of the very lovely face I thought that old man 
had. “ That look,” I said, “ of exquisite benignity 
that is given, have you noticed it? to some faces 
by the religious life. They have some kind of peace I 
think,” I said; and thought upon my own vexations 
caused me by others, of my world out of joint, thought¬ 
less, self-centered, and I sighed. 

“ Rather,” said Angell, “ the beauty of those faces 
is that they have preserved their heritage.” 

Their heritage? Again a word he spoke — that 
“ heritage ” — seemed in a dying fall to echo from the 
murmur of those bells. Their heritage? Their heri¬ 
tage? 

This was my state. What happened happened thus. 
Their heritage? My mind in one part sought his 
meaning, in the other sought within the pulsing of 
those bells, a murmur like a quiet tide about that place, 
again to catch that dying fall, and I was aware sud¬ 
denly that there had been said to me, “ Listen, then, 
to the story of a heritage,” and that a story was being 
told me. 

“ There was a man once,” Angell said, “ whose name 
was Spiritt and who had two friends whose names were 
Meen the one and the other Noble. The friendship had 
begun in early boyhood; it strengthened with the years, 


262 


IN EVENING BELLS 


and Spiritt, who was the owner of a fine house, had 
these two to live there with him. This was a great and 
a fine house that Spiritt had. It came to him from his 
father at his birth; it was his heritage.” 

I caught the word. “ His heritage ? His father, 
then, was — ? ” 

“ His father lived, but was not resident in that place. 
He dwelt in another country. He gave his son this 
house to be his heritage and at the child’s christening 
it entered into the house that thus it had received of 
its father. There were two guardians set over the 
child Spiritt; but as he grew up his father, who greatly 
loved him, daily communicated with him and he com¬ 
municated with his father. . . . 

“ Attend,” continued Angell, for he had paused, “ at¬ 
tend particularly to what I have told you that this was 
a great and a fine house that the child Spiritt had. It 
was a temple.” 

I interrupted him. “ A temple! To live in! Where 
is this story? Not in England? ” 

“ It is in England,” Angell said. 

“ But a temple! As a home! ” Perhaps I laughed. 

“ Oh, man,” said Angell very gravely, and I no¬ 
ticed, afterwards, how very frequently he used that 
term “ Oh, man,” and how curiously stressed it, as 
though he not addressed me in the familiarity of the 
expression, but by my species (as with a capital letter 
I therefore shall denote). “Oh, Man,” said he very 
earnestly, “there will, in this story, be many things 
very strange to you. I pray you bear with me.” 

He put a hand, when he said that, on my knee. 


IN EVENING BELLS 


263 

I do not explain the emotions that at his touch and 
at his gentle plea “ I pray you bear with me ” sur¬ 
charged me. I only can say there somehow came upon 
me something of the uneasy, something of the un¬ 
natural, something of the mysterious tension in which 
one stands when, suddenly breaking a silence profound 
and purposeful, there is cried sharply, “ What was 
that?” 

There had been with that plea of Angell’s such a 
silence; there had been within me, completely possessing 
me, causing my flesh a little to tingle, my breathing a 
little to catch, such an apprehension; and I listened 
terribly; and I heard the faint pulsing of those bells, 
a murmur like a tide about that place; and I was con¬ 
scious of myself as it were battling not to distinguish 
a resonance within that murmur and yet battling des¬ 
perately to distinguish it; and I heard it said—infinitely 
small, as though scarcely, beneath some huge restraint, 
it could be uttered — I heard it said: “ ‘As a lamp de¬ 
spised by him that is at ease.’ Oh, Man, if but you 
will hold that lamp towards my story, then will you 
bear with me and understand. Oh, Man, we try to 
make you understand. We’re always interceding for 
you. We get out sometimes and then we try, oh, try, 
to tell you what we mean. We’re not allowed to. We 
know, of course, that you’ve been told and ought to un¬ 
derstand; but you don’t; you have forgotten; and our 
hearts bleed for you, and we try, try. ... We know 
it is ordained that you must go your own way and that 
we must not explain. We know that we must only use 
your own language and that it hides our meaning; but 


IN EVENING BELLS 


264 

if you only will hold the lamp towards our voices, if 
you only will bear with us-” 

The dreadful tension passed. I heard, as bells, the 
murmur of those bells, and I heard Angell saying: 

“ This temple that he lived in only at first, when 
Spiritt was a child, an infant, attracted the attention 
that you were thinking would make a temple in this 
country impossible of residence. Afterwards, when 
Spiritt grew older, he altered the design, and the 
strangeness, the glory, that was of that place departed 
from that place and it was notable no more. But, oh, 
at first! Oh, Man, when at his christening it first was 
occupied by this child Spiritt, oh, incontestably a temple 
then, beautiful beyond a dream. People did stare at it 
in those days. Its exquisite beauty filled with sheer 
wonder those of them that were of the thinking kind. 
The most unthinking it filled with delight. People 
almost went into adoration before it. Friends would 
crowd about it. Passers-by would stand and stare at 
it. On old people, even on middle-aged people, it had 
a strange effect.” 

“ What effect, Angell?” 

“ A sad and yet a sweet effect. A kind of yearning, 
a sort of hopeless longing, a sense, terribly poignant, 
of something that might have been theirs — lost.” 

“You mean they contrasted it with their own 
homes ? ” 

He bowed his head in deep assent. 

“ Then you have thought,” he said, “ a temple not 
suitable, as to its rooms, to dwell in. This temple that 
Spiritt had was in every way, both inside and out, the 


IN EVENING BELLS 


265 

most perfect residence a man could imagine. It had 
everything for every use and luxury; it had nothing 
that was not both beautiful and good. It was, as well, 
of wonderful interior. Spiritt, who alone had the full 
secrets of it, could hide and be lost in this temple of his. 
It had secret chambers, labyrinthine corridors, dun¬ 
geons, turret-rooms, places remote and inaccessible ex¬ 
cept to Spiritt, and he could, and often did, get away 
into them and be alone where none could find him. Oh, 
fearfully and wonderfully made that house of his! ” 

“ But you are speaking of him now,” I said — “ of 
his getting away to be alone in his house, his temple — 
when he was older, out of childhood ? ” 

Angell told me, “ Out of childhood, yes, and his 
friends Meen and Noble equal with him in his years. 
Have I told you how, when they were children, he first 
met them? He was some six or seven then, nine or 
ten perhaps, and it was resident in his own house he 
found them, not, as you might think, met in the homes 
of friends.” 

“ Resident in his house ? Resident in his own house 
before he knew they were there? ” 

“ It was so,” Angell said. “ Even before he really 
discovered them and had them for his intimate com¬ 
panions, even before that he had caught glimpses of 
them, flitting away down distant corridors, hidden in 
and darting away from unexpected rooms — ” 

“ But some one must have known — ” 

“ His father knew. It was his father caused them 
to be there.” 

" Caused them ? Angell, his father, in this other 


266 IN EVENING BELLS 

country where he lived — how do you mean caused 
them ? ” 

He said, “ ‘ As a lamp despised — ’ ” He said, “ I 
pray you bear with me.” 

I said, “ Go on.” 

He thus went on: “ They soon became his friends, 
these two. Friends — more than friends — his inti¬ 
mates, his — do you use this word ? -— his two 
familiars. They were very different. Noble, when 
first Spiritt encountered him and throughout Spiritt’s 
boyhood, was virile, strong, robust and of much force 
of character. He very greatly attracted the boy Spiritt, 
and, attracting him, gained much ascendency over him. 
Where Noble led, Spiritt followed; and Noble always 
led. He was the originator of every boyish enterprise, 
leader in every boyish game. You are to imagine the 
house resounding with the happy laughter of those two. 
From morning to evening they were at sport together. 
They shared the same bedroom; they were never apart; 
they were inseparable. 

“Very different,” continued Angell, “was Meen. 
A weak and puling child. He was undeveloped, under¬ 
sized, very frequently laid up, doing nothing, scarcely 
ever out of doors. His condition is very difficult 
to tell you in your words. You have your expres¬ 
sion more dead than alive.’ Meen, in Spiritt’s boy¬ 
hood, was like that; throughout those earlier years — 
sick unto death; yes, scarcely with a spark of life; often 
from day to day scarcely expected to live.” 

“ Angell, why ? ” 

“ Neglect,” said Angell. “ Meen was neglected.” 


IN EVENING BELLS 267 

- said, “ But, Angell, neglect like that — cruelty — ” 

Again he laid his hand upon my knee. “ Oh, Man,” 
he said, “ it was right that the child Meen thus should 
be neglected. It was right. I pray you, if you do not 
understand, bear with me — ” 

“ Go on,” I said; and I was conscious by the pres¬ 
sure of his hand upon my knee he thanked me. 

“ Meen was neglected by Spiritt,” he continued, “ and 
it was right he should be. Spiritt was for ever with 
his good familiar Noble, and he was completely under 
Noble’s influence and happy thus to be. You are to 
imagine Meen, seeing himself not wanted, keeping him¬ 
self in the background; lurking in that house miserable, 
dejected, useless; and you are to imagine Spiritt’s 
guardians much approving and encouraging Spiritt’s 
friendship with Noble, much delighting in the ascend¬ 
ency Noble had over him. You are to imagine that, 
and it was in this wise that the early years went on. 
Came now the years of school; Spiritt at a Public 
School; Noble there with him; Meen — not there.” 

“ Still sickly, Angell?” 

He shook his head. “ Not that. Oh, Man, consent 
to this — there was no place for Meen in that school 
to which Spiritt went; there is no place in any Public 
School for such as Meen was. Schools kill such boys.” 

“ Kill! Angell — ” 

He said, entreating me, " Oh, Man, consent! I pray 
you bear — ” 

I said, “ Go on.” 

He told me: “ And after school to College Spiritt; 
and Noble with him still; and still not Meen. But 


268 


IN EVENING BELLS 


Meen — attend to this — was now of something 
livelier health and sometimes Spiritt friendly with 
him. He was not good for Spiritt. At school twice, 
at the University more times than twice, Meen visited 
Spiritt and it was coincident with his visits that each 
time there was some base action that Spiritt did. At 
the school on a day of Meen’s visit Spiritt told on a 
boy and put that boy in punishment, thereby himself 
escaping; at the University a visit was made by Meen 
on a day that Spiritt, entered for a scholarship, knew 
of the sudden putting forward of the hour at which 
one paper of the examination was to be held and knew 
his closest rival (who was a friend of his) did not 
know. Mark this — that Spiritt’s instinct was to tell 
this rival. Meen came to him and argued with him 
‘ Why ? * * That rival had as good a chance to know 

as you,’ urged Meen. ‘ It is no duty of yours to tell 
him. If he should miss this paper — Why should you 
rob yourself of the advantage you, merely by not tell¬ 
ing him, will secure ? Why should you? ’ And Spiritt, 
thus persuaded, did not.” 

A pause was made by Angell. “ That marked,” he 
then said, “ a point. It marked the first real symptom 
of what became in Spiritt a growing taste for Meen’s 
society. I will traverse a score of years for you, then 
will come back upon them; there are things that will 
be hard to make quite clear. The young man Spiritt, 
embarking on his place in life, passed from the Uni¬ 
versity into an administrative branch of the Civil 
Service. Promotion, up to the point at which are 
brought in view the prizes of those higher grades in 


IN EVENING BELLS 


269 

which was Spiritt, goes by seniority; then — as go the 
prizes in every walk of life — by selection. Spiritt, 
when he had been nearly twenty years in his depart* 
ment — and in this period had married — was well in 
view for a post much coveted. By seniority this much 
desirable post was his; selection was made and it was 
not his. He was passed over. A colleague junior to 
himself, of whom Spiritt had long been envious and 
(as you shall hear) in a previous contest had out- 
rivalled, was chosen in his place. 

“ Spiritt,” said Angell, “ when he heard the news 
was not in the common sense of the word disappointed; 
he was disappointed in the savage sense of the word, 
the sense in which is disappointed a caged beast to which 
meat is shown then snatched away. He was.furious. 
He threw up his position, took his meagre pension and 
retired to live on his estate. He was still a young man, 
a man of forty-two, but he was a disappointed and an 
embittered man. 

“ Now I go back. These were the years, in his term 
in the Civil Service, of the change in Spiritt’s attitude 
toward his two companions. Now was a growing 
friendliness with Meen and signs of Meen’s ascendency. 
Now was the gradual falling out of sympathy with 
Noble and Noble’s loss of hold. Now was the time he 
made his marriage, marrying a girl of beauty and of 
charm. Now was the time of jealousy towards his 
office mates; and now is to be said it was significant 
that not the least part of his satisfaction in his bride 
was that he won her from that colleague of whom I 
have spoken, who also passionately had courted her.” 


270 


IN EVENING BELLS 


“ Angell, significant of what?” said I. 

“ Significant,” said Angell, “ of his increasing friend¬ 
liness with Meen. As farther down the road of life 
trod Spiritt, accumulating years in his office and ma¬ 
turing in his married state, more and more associated 
he with Meen and more and more fell off from Noble. 
Noble and Meen were never, and never had been, on 
speaking terms. As Spiritt developed affinities with 
Meen, so naturally fell into desuetude affinities with 
Noble. Meen, who as a child, had been less than weak¬ 
ling, as a man took on health and character at a pace 
and in a degree very remarkable. 

“ Oh, Man,” said Angell, his voice impressive, “ oh, 
Man, listen when I tell you that at his changed choice 
of friends none was more surprised and none more 
grieved than Mary, Spiritt’s wife. That woman, like 
all else who knew Noble, was completely under Noble’s 
charm. She never loved her husband so much as when, 
in Noble’s company, he comported himself under No¬ 
ble’s ascendency. You might say that she fell in love 
with him and married him because of his companion¬ 
ship with Noble. You might say further this, — that 
she never would have married Spiritt if she had known 
that he knew Meen.” 

“ Angell,” I said, “ she must have known. Spiritt, 
when she would first have met him, and while he was 
courting her, and while they were betrothed, had been 
living in his very house with him. She must have 
known.” 

“ Oh, Man,” said Angell, “ remember the secret hid¬ 
ing-places of that house where Spiritt lived, its laby- 


IN EVENING BELLS 271 

rinthine corridors, its dungeons, towers, privy fast¬ 
nesses — ” 

I said, “ But, still — ” 

“ Nothing,” said Angell, “ that Spiritt desired to hide 
in that house could ever be seen by another unless he 
chose to reveal it. He never till after their marriage 
revealed to Mary that he had Meen as dweller there. 
Truly there were, before he did disclose it, occasions 
when she had strange suspicions of an inmate of that 
place unknown to her. As the early months of their 
marriage strengthened into permanent relations she 
sometimes, when with Spiritt or when thinking of 
him, caught glimpses of a sinister presence furtively 
about the house, and it dismayed her; but she would 
assure herself that it was nothing, only her imagina¬ 
tion ; and she was a brave and loyal soul, though gentle. 

“ But Meen was there. He was there; and the time 
developed when Spiritt’s increasing fondness for his 
company caused to be very frequent and to accumulate 
the evidences of a stranger in the house that gave 
Mary transient alarm; and then one day she saw Meen 
full and face to face; and it was a terrible discovery for 
her.” 

“ Angell,” I said, “ was Meen then so clearly bad 
that at a single first sight of him- ? ” 

“ He was vile,” said Angell. “ That man was vile; 
and dreadful to Mary was her discovery of him and 
dreadful this — that no sooner had she fully come upon 
him than she found her husband’s company never with¬ 
out him. Spiritt was now always with Meen and 
Meen’s ascendency became as great as had been 



IN EVENING BELLS 


272 

Noble’s. Noble’s had been for good, Meen’s was for 
bad; that was the difference. It showed in this — in 
Spiritt’s continuous and increasing jealousy of his col¬ 
leagues in his office; in his new but rapidly developing 
hostility towards his wife. In his office, and when 
thinking of his office, Spiritt was resentful, petty, quick 
at affront, envious and bitter; in his home, returning 
dispirited and sore, he was by turns morose, fault-find¬ 
ing, bullying, impossible to please. It was in these ways 
that Meen’s influence showed.” 

“ Angell,” I said, “ you say Meen’s influence was 
responsible. It is not plain-” 

“Things rankled with Spiritt,” Angell said. “ Little 
things at the office and little things at home rankled 
and festered in him, and it was Meen caused them thus 
to rankle and to fester. Spiritt began to think that the 
lot of his office colleagues was easier than his lot, fcnd 
in part he hated them for it and in part he pitied him¬ 
self for it. ‘He began to think that his wife did not 
sympathise with him and did not understand him and 
was not grateful to him, and in part he was resentful 
against her for it and in part he pitied himself for it. 

“ He talked of these things to Meen,” said Angell, 
“ and Meen inflamed them within him. It began to 
come to the pass at which there was no action or no 
thought that he considered but he looked at it first 
through the eyes of Meen and carried it out or indulged 
it as Meen prompted him. He had been the protege 
and disciple of Noble, and that was uplifting and stim¬ 
ulating. But he became the slave of Meen, and that 
was debasing and debilitating. 



IN EVENING BELLS 


273 

“ The pitiable thing,” continued Angell, his voice at 
impressive gravity, “ the pitiable thing was that at this, 
the very time when Spiritt should have called Noble to 
his counsel and to his aid, he was, under the influence 
of Meen, detesting the very thought of Noble and of 
all that belonged to Noble. He grew to hate the man — 
his old familiar friend! 

“ He set himself at last,” said Angell, “ to have him 
die.” 

I said, “ To have him die? To murder him? ” 

“ Noble was sick,” said Angell. “ There was a great 
change upon him in these later years. As Meen, out 
of a puling childhood and a sickly youth, had sprung 
into a manhood singularly vigorous and robust, so 
Noble, a lion in his younger age, in middle years, bereft 
of Spiritt’s old solicitude, became dispirited, declined, 
fell weak. He was an easy prey to Spiritt’s base inten¬ 
tions, and Spiritt, instigated by Meen, made up his 
mind to have him die and thus remove his presence. It 
was easy by reason of Noble’s state of health; it was 
easy by reason of the facilities for concealment that 
were offered Spiritt by his house. He had but to shut 
away Noble in some privy chamber and there abandon 
him, and this, urged on by Meen, he did. Within that 
secret cell Noble, Spiritt knew, was sinking fast and 
soon must die. He kept away. He was forever with 
Meen, whispering with him. When he would think, in 
swift remorse, to go to Noble in his cell, he was with¬ 
held by Meen and did not go. The man was dying in 
there. There was about that house an ugly air.” 

I said, “ It was horrible. What of Mary? ” 


274 


IN EVENING BELLS 


“ For Mary terrible. Oh, Man, it terrible is indeed 
for a dweller in a house with one beneath the will of a 
man such as Meen. Under that influence Spiritt’s con¬ 
duct towards his wife became increasing base. He did 
nothing violent to her. Sometimes she wished he 
would. Sometimes she felt that anything, however 
brutal, would be welcome so long as it was open and 
direct. What crushed her was that nothing her hus¬ 
band did was open and direct. All his behaviour was 
underhand, crafty, sly. He was always on the look-out 
to catch her in a thousand little trifles that were of 
themselves nothing but that enabled him to put her in 
the wrong and himself in the right. He began to 
inflict upon her periods, sometimes of days together, in 
which he would never open his mouth to her. More 
often than not a meal would be taken without a word, 
much as she tried. He would leave the house in the 
morning without good-bye, he would return in the 
evening and still be dumb. She suffered further this 
distress — the sudden and not accounted-for disap¬ 
pearance of Noble from their household. It first sur¬ 
prised her, she could not understand it. It then bewil¬ 
dered her, then dismayed her, then, as she gave him up 
for gone, only most utterly grieved her.” 

I said,*“ Did she not ask? Angell, did she not ask 
her husband where this Noble was? ” 

“ She asked him once.” 

“ Tell me,” I said. 

“ They were at dinner one night,” Angell said. 
“ Spiritt during several days had not spoken a word to 
her. At this meal, her endurance gone, she expostu- 


IN EVENING BELLS 


275 

lated. * What have I done, what have I ever done/ she 
cried, ‘ to make you treat me thus ? ’ 

“ Spiritt began on her then a blistering attack that 
lasted through the meal, half whine, half venom — that 
she did not understand him, that she did not sympathise 
with him, that his life was one long round of work 
unrecognised and unrewarded and that his wife, who 
should have been the first to comfort him, gave him no 
comfort. 

“ In reply she for the first time in their married life 
broke out and gave him her side of their case — told 
him of his pettiness, of his secrecy, of his enlargement 
of trifles, of his danger of ruining his career by his 
envy and jealousy of others. 

“ He answered her with poisoned words and he 
finished: ‘ God alone knows why I ever married you! ’ 
“ She murmured, ‘Yes, God only!’; and she then 
said, ‘ But I know why I married you. I married you 
because you appealed to me above all else as being so 
noble, so high-minded. All that’ — she made a deso¬ 
late gesture with her hand — ‘ is gone! ’ ” 

Angell looked towards me and was silent. 

I questioned, “ Yes? ” 

“ That was the instance,” Angell said. 

“ The instance? Angell, that was no instance of her 
asking him what had happened to Noble.” 

“ Oh, Man,” he said, “ it was. Can you not under¬ 
stand ? ” 

I shook my head. I had no words. My voice when 
I had questioned him had been a whisper. I had 
increasingly a feeling — how shall it be described? — 


IN EVENING BELLS 


276 

of listening as might listen in a stillness one whose life 
hung upon the hearing of some sound, of peering as 
might peer towards a footfall in the night one standing 
sentinel, alarmed. 

“ Go on,” I said. 

He thus continued, “ Spiritt was closing in his hand 
on Noble. Sometimes he now would go to the cell and 
look at him; and sometimes, looking upon that wasted 
form and reflecting upon the days when this had been 
his vigorous and splendid friend, would in a swift 
remorse think to recover him and bring him out. He 
never could. Meen ever was at his elbow prompting 
him against such thoughts, encouraging him by temp¬ 
tations to his own genial company to abandon the other; 
and the time came when for a period longer than ever 
before Spiritt went not near to the cell where the dying 
man lay. 

“ It was in this period he was savaged with bitter¬ 
ness by the news that his colleague had been passed 
over his head into the appointment he had coveted; it 
was now he threw up his position, retired, as I have 
told you, and came to live at home on his small pen¬ 
sion. His wife, as he approached this decision, im¬ 
plored him not to take a step so fatal to both their 
interests. Her entreaties served but to stiffen him in 
his resolve. When one night he told her he had writ¬ 
ten and sent in his resignation: ‘ This means,’ she said, 
‘ I shall have to give up the last few interests that are 
dear to me — the few pounds I have been able to scrape 
together for my mother; the few books it has been my 
delight to buy; the trifles I have been able to spend on 


IN EVENING BELLS 


277 

my flower garden; the little cottage I so dearly loved 
where I have been able to keep my old nurse in her 
declining years. Oh, will you have me give up these ? ’ 

“ ‘ I hate those interests of yours,’ Spiritt told her. 
‘ It is my money that has gone on them, not yours. 
There is to me one satisfaction in this retirement of 
mine and it is that those things you like to do — are 
done.’ 

“ Tears rushed into her eyes and she threw herself 
on a couch and wept bitterly. ‘ Oh,’ she cried, ‘ you 
are mean, you are mean! * 

“ At that cry of hers,” said Angell, “ Spiritt was 
startled — first startled, then furious, then amused.” 

“ But, Angell — ” I said. 

“ He went out from her,” pursued Angell, “ and 
went along the labyrinthine corridors towards the cell 
where Noble lay.” 

I had to break in. “ But, Angell,” I cried, “ at what 
that she had said to him was Spiritt startled? Why 
startled ? At what amused ? Why amused ? ” 

“ At being taken,” said Angell, “ for his friend 
Meen.” 

“ But, Angell — ” 

My interruption was unheeded. “ He went to the 
cell,” said Angell, “ and looked in. Noble was dead.” 

s|s 5|s jji 

I do not explain (as before I have said I could 
not explain) the emotions that at this climax of this 
story much possessed me. I knew again as then that 
dreadful tension, again that sense of pressing mystery, 
again that numbing awe; and knew myself listening 


IN EVENING BELLS 


278 

most terribly again; and heard again those bells amur- 
mur like a tide about that place; and in my duress 
heard again it said, “ We try, oh, try, to make 
you understand . . . we’re not allowed to ... we 
try . . ” 

But there was now this change in this my state— 
that I seemed to myself, in a great agony of desolation, 
to be pleading; but for whom I pleaded I did not know; 
and I cried, but could not hear my voice, but knew that 
my voice spoke, “ Noble was dead! But there is this 
I cannot see: why, when Spiritt’s wife called Spiritt 
mean, should he have thought she was mistaking him 
for Meen, his friend? ” 

I seemed to be pleading. “ I do not understand,” I 
cried, “ how Spiritt, how any man, possibly could have 
thought that.” 

It was answered me: “Not always is it realised by a 
man that he is mean.” 

I seemed to be pleading: “ He would know,” I cried, 
“ if he were mercenary.” 

It was answered me: “Not always is it realised 
there is meanness, not of money, but of nature.” 

I seemed to be pleading; but at those words to be 
in sore despite; to have had my pleas cut down from 
under me; to be able to plead no more. 

* * * * * 

“You are troubled? ” I heard it said, and this was 
Angell’s voice. 

I said, “ I am beset. I am perplexed. I am-” 

“ There is a comfort in my story,” Angell most 
gravely said. 



IN EVENING BELLS 


279 

I cried, “ There is no comfort, not in your story, not 
within my world, no comfort, none.” 

“ There is a comfort,” Angell said. “ Know that 
there was in later years a change came over that man 
Spiritt. When he retired, a disappointed man, and 
when, a disappointed man, he settled down in closest 
company with Meen to make life a misery and a tor¬ 
ment for all about him, he was one day, not as is com¬ 
monly the case by any affliction, but by a sudden inter¬ 
lude of clear reasoning, brought to take stock of his 
position, and to examine himself impersonally. In a 
depth of those depths of misery into which often he 
was plunged, he asked himself: ‘ Why am I miserable, 
why always unhappy? Why is my life a burden to 
me?' And he reasoned it that his life was a failure 
and his existence a burden not, as he had believed, by 
the fault of those, particularly his wife, whom he had 
accused of it, but by the fault of his association with 
this Meen, by the fault of his allowing this Meen to 
share his house and influence his way. 

“ Do not believe,” said Angell, his voice most earnest, 
“ do not believe it is impossible that a man, thus deep 
in slavery of another, cannot see that other in his true 
light and set himself to free himself. There is the par¬ 
allel, most common, in a man, much abandoned to 
drink, realising the thief he puts within his mouth to 
steal away his brains, and setting himself to bind in 
chains that monster. In such discovery did Spiritt 
realise his house by Meen was being destroyed: he saw 
that man had become a part of himself and had become 
the stronger part, possessing him as devils. He sat 


28 o 


IN EVENING BELLS 


away from Meen on the day of this discovery and he 
realised, with a sudden lift and with a sudden glory, 
that Meen was not, in fact, a part of himself; that 
Meen occupied his house, not of prescriptive right, but 
as a lodger only, a guest, a visitor on sufferance, a 
parasite that could be shed. 

“ Oh,” cried Angell, “ what a joy to Spiritt was 
in that revelation! 4 1 have suffered him too long! ’ 

cried Spiritt. 4 1 will throw out this man! I will rid 
my house of this destroyer of my house, this parasite, 
this fiend, and throw his shoes out after him!’ 

44 It was not easy. Meen fought, and Meen could 
fight. Meen had a hold within that house of Spiritt’s, 
and desperately hard it was to shake him. But he was 
had at a disadvantage. Spiritt, who before submis¬ 
sively and unquestionably had accepted him, knew him 
now for what he was, a lodger only; and strong in this 
his new discovery, Spiritt, before an action or a 
thought, would pause, and it was that pause that shook 
Meen. And Spiritt, pausing, would say, 4 This is 
Meen’s hand here ’ ; and it was as if those words were 
a dagger through the hand and through the soul of 
Meen.” 

He stopped. I knew his stopping questioned me. 

I said, 44 Yes, comfort. For that man Spiritt there 
was hope of comfort there. But, Angell, there was 
this upon his soul — there was that Noble — dead.” 

• 44 He had hope,” said Angell, 44 in the matter of 
Noble.” 

44 What hope?” 

44 Hope of his father.” 


28 i 


IN EVENING BELLS 

“ How of his father, Angell ? ” 

“ He confessed to his father/' 

Confessed? What hope is mere confession?" 
Oh, Man/ said Angell, “ know you not how when 
you see in trouble one you love you cannot help because 
you are not told? ‘ If only he would tell me every¬ 
thing/ you say. We call it Trust. 4 If only/ Spiritt’s 
father cried, ‘ if only he would trust me!’ The day 
was when Spiritt did; and on that day his father came 
to him in his house and dwelt in his house with him." 

“ But helped him ? How helped him, Angell ? 
Noble was dead. What could his father do? " 

“ There were," said Angell, “ strange powers and 
mysteries that his father had." 

* * * * * 

Newly upon the air upon those words those bells; 
no murmur now, but now in music faint yet exqui¬ 
sitely clear; now in no dying fall, but now upborne to 
me in upward strain. 

I do not explain. . . . 

“ The God-speed bells," I thought, and saw that time 
had passed, that night was down, that dark and starred 
above us stood the vault. 

“ Tell me," I said, “ these powers and these mys¬ 
teries." 

“ It is the end that I will tell you," Angell said. 
“ Spiritt at last one day forever rid his house of Meen; 
and on that day he told his wife (who much had seen 
and much delighted in Meen’s losing influence) that 
those fond pleasures of hers of which he had deprived 
her he intended now to restore to her. It would involve 


282 


IN EVENING BELLS 


for himself, he said, small sacrifices. He was glad it 
should. There had been much unhappiness between 
them, he told her. He thought there not again would 
be; and he said then to her, those words that are the 
hardest words a man can speak. She had been, while 
he told her, crying, as once before she cried; but these 
were very gentle, happy tears. He put his arms about 
her and said the words that are so hard to say: 

“ ‘ It has been all my fault,’ he said. ‘ Forgive me, 
I am sorry.’ 

“ Listen,” said Angell, “ to the words of her reply. 
The words of her reply informed him his familiar 
friend that he had shut away to death miraculously 
was restored to life; had never died; had suffered, like 
Lazarus, a trance; inhabited with him now his house 
again. The words his wife at his atonement cried to 
him were, * Oh, you are noble, you are noble!*” 

“ But Angell,” I cried, “ that same confusion, as 
when she told him he was mean, of a quality and a per¬ 
son — how could he think — ? Angell — ” 

He was not there! 

Could I believe my eyes? I could not believe them. 
He had been beside me, touching me. Can a man van¬ 
ish? A man cannot vanish. I could not believe my 
eyes. I put out my hand and passed my hand along the 
place where he had sat. He was not there. . . . 

Had those bells stopped ? I listened. No bells — but 
yes, some sound. I listened. High in the night above 
me beat like a pulse a sound, faint as I caught it, faint, 
fainter, fainter, exquisitely tiny, gone. . . . 

It was the sound of the beat of a wing. 


IN EVENING BELLS 


283 

I gazed about. High in the nadir overhead a star 
stood, singularly bright. Never so bright a star. . . . 
But was it bright? It was dimming, it was receding, it 
was faint, fainter, fainter, exquisitely tiny, gone . . . 
***** 

As I trod home I met outside his church the vicar, 
that wise and kind old man of the serenity of whose 
mild face the thought had but the day before been mine 
that it reflected light as bears the quiet sea upon its 
countenance the moon; and would have passed him; 
and on a sudden impulse stopped and put a question: 

“ Vicar, you preached to-night? ” 

He told me “ Yes.” 

“ You preached; what was your text? ” 

“ A beautiful text,” he said. “ From the Corin¬ 
thians. ‘ What, know ye not that your body is the 
temple of God? ’ ” 

And I knew then: — Spiritt, but I had spelt it 
wrongly, the spirit of a man, as mine; his temple — 
that heritage of his, lovely in innocence, disfigured as he 
grows — his body that his soul inhabits, with laby¬ 
rinthine corridors, dungeons, fastnesses remote and 
unapproachable, wherein his secret self may hide; Noble 
and Meen, those twin familiars, nobility and meanness 
which dwell therein with him, which grow or die 
according as they are by him fostered or put away. 

And I knew then, touching my private hurts, my 
sense of hardship, my sense of others, not myself, to 
blame . . . Meen in my temple in ascendency. 


THE END 

























THE NOVELS OF A. S. M. HUTCHINSON 


THIS FREEDOM 

“Mr. Hutchinson's new novel, ‘This Freedom/ grapples reso¬ 
lutely with one of the greatest social problems of our time, and 
his solution is the only possible solution — the one given nearly 
two thousand years ago in Palestine. The novel is filled with 
vivid persons, and there are passages here and there so notable as 
to place Mr. Hutchinson among the foremost novelists of our 
time."— Professor William Lyon Phelps . 

IF WINTER COMES 

“ ‘If Winter Comes’ is more than a mere novel, it is an epic 
poem of very great beauty. It will last long after most other 
literary products of this age have gone to an obscure and un¬ 
lamented grave."— Robert E. Sherwood in Life, New York . 

ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER— 

A delightful comedy of English life — not a sea story. “Any¬ 
body who likes ‘If Winter Comes,’ and many who don’t, should read 
his earlier novel ‘Once Aboard the Lugger—’ It is one of the mer¬ 
riest books ever written."— Heywood Broun in The New York World. 

THE HAPPY WARRIOR 

“ . . . His romance and his humor are all his own, and the 
story is shot through and through with a fleeting romance and 
humor that is all the more effective because it is so evanescent. 
Few novels exist in which the characters are as viable as Mr. 
Hutchinson’s."— Edwin Francis Edgett in The Boston Transcript. 

THE CLEAN HEART 

“It will find its way to the heart of the reader in short order. 
It has a strong human interest, a hero whose cause commands 
appeal, and a most lovable heroine . . . Written in fine dra¬ 
matic style and with character delineation that has a charm all 
its own.”— The Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 


Boston LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY Publishers 




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